ROMANCE 



STUDEIT LIEE ABROAD. 



BY c, 

RICHARD B. KIMBALL, 

AUTHOR OF "ST. l^QER," ETC, 



Whut might this be 1 A thousand fantasies 
Begin to throng into tny memory. 

Co»iM 3 



NEW YORK: 
G. P. PUTNAM & CO., 10 PARK PLACE. 

M.DCCC.LIII. 



?'i 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S52, 

Bv Richard B. Kimball, 

In the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of Nsvv- York. 



Gift from 
the Estate of Miss Ruth l^utlldm 
Oct.6.id31 



BiLLiN AND Brothers, 
Stereotypers, 20 Xorth William St., 



The Ancient Art rigorously separates things which are 
dissimilar; the Romantic delights in indissoluble mixtures, 
all contrarieties : nature and art, poetry and prose, serious- 
ness and mirth, recollection and anticipation, spirituality and 
sensuality-, terrestrial and celestial, life and death, are by it 
blended together in the most intimate combination. 

The Ancient Art is an harmonious promulgation of the 
permanently established legislation of a world submitted to 
a beautiful order. The Romantic is the expression of the 
secret attraction to Chaos which lies concealed in the very 
bosom of the ordered Universe, and is perpetually striving 
after new and marvellous births. 

The former is more simple, clear, and like to nature in 
the seli^existent perfection of her separate works ; the latter, 
notwithstanding its fragmentary appearance, approaches more 
to the secret of the Universe. For Conception can only 
comprise each object separately, but nothing in truth can 
ever exist separately and by itself; Feeling perceives all in 
all at one and the same time. — A. W. VoN Schlegel. 



CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER I. 



PAGB 



A first adventure. — Calais. — A new acquaintance. — Mr. Philip 
Belcher. — His theory of travel. — He proffers good advice. — 
He gives an account of himself. — Story of Louis Herbois. — 
New visions. — New prospects. — New anticipations. . . 17 



CHAPTER II. 

surprise. — A discussion. — The diligence. — Capitaine Duclos. 
— Entertaining women. — Beautiful hamlets. — Fantastic grave- 
yards. — Images of the Virgin. — Signs over the different 
Hotels. — Donkeys. — Dinner en rouU. — Partridge recites poetry. 
— Scone at the Inn. — The bougies. — Partridge turns sym- 
pathizer. — Hotel Sauvage. — Hotel des Gentilhommes. — We 



xii Contents. 

PAOB 

enter Paris.— We look about.— Visit to the Student's Quarter. 
— Monsieur Battz. — The Mademoiselle Battz.— Our new set. — 
*' Walking" the hospital. — The young English doctor. — His 
peculiarities. — Man and woman discussed 56 



CHAPTEK III. 

Clements illustrates. — Students in Paris. — Students in Germany. 
— The distinction. — Habits of the former. — The Story of 
Ludwig Bernhardi 76 



CHAPTEK IV. 

Kambles over Paris. — Charbon and fagot venders. — Jacques 
Tourneau. — The gardens. — Hotel dea Invalides. — Old soldier 
with two wooden legs. — The chapel. — Old soldiers at prayers. 
— The melancholy officer. — Light and shadow. — Incident in 
the chapel. — Children playing. — Little Annie. — Her grand- 
mother. — French delicacy. — An affecting scene. . . . 102 



CHAPTEE V. 

Students' nonsense. — After dinner. — Our company. — Daloney. — 
Franz Von Herberg.— Jacob Wahlen. — The two Englishmen. 
— Vincent. — A good shot. — The picture Franz cannot paint. — 
Putting two things together.— The new hat.— The juggler.— A 
dangerous suggestion. — National characteristics. — We visit 



r^ O N T E N T S . 3tiii 



PAOX 



an artist's room. — Its appearance. — The wrong painting. 
— The whole party struck with horror. — We beg for an ex- 
planation Ill 



CHAPTER VI. 

Life not a particular form of body, but body a particular form of 
life. — Story of the Terrible Picture. — Vincent feels unsettled. 
— His invitation.— Champagne. — Pipes. — Meerschaums and 
segars in requisition 121 



CHAPTER VII. 

Vincent proposes to tell a story. — He makes an inquiry in ad- 
vance. — It is answered. — He requests the company not to be 
impertinent. — He tells the story of the Water-carrier. — The 
company break up in fine spirits. — Nobody thinks of the 
terrible picture 13? 



CHAPTER VIII. 

[ornings at la Morgue.— Melancholy sights. — The pale woman. — 
Young girls. — Young men. — The little child in search of 
" Mamma." — The old man. — Leave Paris. — Return in the sum- 
mer. — Jardin des Plants. — Pi<rtridge proposes a remarkable 
enterprise. — We attend at the rendezvous. — The strange ap- 



xiv Contents. 

pearance. — An hour of suspense. — Partridge explains. — Story 

of the Fair Mystery 173 



CHAPTER IX. 

Changes. — The rue Copeau abandoned. — A haunted house. — The 
Italian. — He refuses to enlighten us. — Vincent reads a letter. 
— A melancholy Jacques. — An account of New York society. 
— The Italian discourses about physicians. — He will go to 
America. — He tells a strange story of a dead man on the 
Boulevard. — The dispersion 205 



CHAPTER X. 

New quarters. — Franz Von Herberg. — Rue de la Chaussee d' Antin. 
— Our opposite neighbours. — The backgammon players. — The 
two grisettes. — Mother and idiot son. — Shopkeeper's family. 
— People of fashion. — French economy. — What Franz tried 
to paint. — Our Lady of Lorette. — Old mendicant. — His death. 
— A serious discussion. — Franz is in doubt. — Ch:(nii)aux's. . 21(5 



CHAPTER XI. 

The cafe. — A character. — The gar§on is puzzled. — He wears a 
permanent shrug. — He is in despair. — We proceed to his 
assistance and discover an acquaintance. — Wilcox gives an 
account of his efforts to keep from starving. — New m.ethod 



Contents. xv 

PAOB 

of dining. — Wilcox on his travels. — He reaches Lyons. — He 
attempts to go to Marseilles. — He gets into trouble, and then 
into prison. — Meets with fresh misfortunes. — Is at last set at 
liberty. — A funeral scene. — Death. — Mourners. — The artificial 
and the natural 224 



CHAPTER XII. 

Almost ut the end. — We tire of fashionable quarters. — Partridge 
returns. — We prepare to leave Paris. — Franz's new painting. 
— Partridge is inquisitive. — The story is demanded. — It is 
insisted on. — It is told. — Story of Marie Laforet. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

Preface for conclusion. — Author and literary friend. — A mistake 
which cannot be corrected. — Publisher shakes his head. — A 
compromise 258 



ROMANCE OF STUDENT LIFE ABROAD, 



CHAPTER I. 



A FIRST ADVENTURE. 



We intended — Partridge and myself — to go directly 
from Liverpool to Paris. It is what most youth decide to 
do when they find themselves for the first time on European 
soil. But we reconsidered the matter. After enjoying 
with a keen relish the comforts of an English inn for 
twenty-four hours, we concluded to make a tour of Great 
Britain and Ireland, before settling down to study. 

This was several years ago. It is hardly prudent to count 
back how many. On second thoughts, I resolve to do it : I 
now say, vnth. accuracy, it was sixteen years. 

At that period a voyage across the Atlantic was a thing 
to be remembered for a life-time. Lasting friendships 
were formed, and often what w^ere more significant than 
friendships; for many were the vows to which Neptune 



18 Romance of Student Life. 

was the witness, and frequent their interchange, on the 
decks of our magnificent packet-ships, those fine nights, 



'* "While overhead the moon 

Sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth 
Wheels her pale course " 

In short, it was like a charming visit of a month at the 
mansion of some hospitable friend, whose abode is filled 
with a large and congenial company. How all this is 
changed ! The idea of wooing and winning a lovely maiden 
on board of a steamer, while the engines, impelled by 

" Tartarean snlphur and strange fire," 

beat time to your protestations with their clack — clatter — 
clank ! Alas, the friendly mansion is converted into a 
noisy hotel, and the visit of a month reduced to a stay of 
ten days. 

On the other side of the ocean, the mail-coach and 
diligence were in their glory, while at almost every turn of 
the road one encountered the post-chaise or caleche of the 
private traveller. I mention this by way of parenthesis, and 
proceed to remark that, after making our proposed excur- 
sion through England, Ireland, and Scotland, and as we 
were about to cross the Channel from Dover, my com- 
panion missed his portmanteau and was obliged to go back 
to London in search of it ; while I, eager to get into France, 
passed over to Calais, promising to wait for him there. 



A First Adventure. 19 

I shall give no account of my friend's exploits in pursuit 
of his lost luggage — I shall not even tell whether he found 
it or not. I am to speak of this, my first adventure into 
France, and how I fared at Calais. The landing and getting 
through the custom-house, the examination of passports and 
so forth, diverted me for a few hours. The aspect of every 
thing around — to me new and peculiar — ^made the following 
day pass cheerfully enough. On the third, I attempted a 
drive on the road to St. Omer, and returned covered with 
dust, without seeing a single object to interest me. It was 
now with difficulty that I could occupy the time. As a last 
resource, I took to inspecting the different faces which daily 
presented themselves at the Hotel de Meurice, where one 
could see a great variety of features, belonging to almost 
every country, age, sex, and condition. But I tired of this 
presently, so that when the fifth day brought with it one of 
those disagreeable storms peculiar to the coast — ^half drizzle, 
half sleet and rain — it found me weary of the amusement 
of attending on new arrivals and departures, and of the 
nameless petty doings by which time, in a bustling hotel, is 
attempted to be frittered away. A misty, dreary, damp, 
offensive day ! An out-and-out tempest, a thorough right 
down drenching rain, would have been in agreeable contrast 
with the previous hot, dusty, sunny weather; but this — it 
seemed absolutely intolerable ! I was, besides, in no par- 
ticular condition to be pleased. I was neither setting out 



20 Romance of Student Life. 

upon a tour, nor returning from one, but had been inter- 
rupted in my progress and forced, with loss of my compan- 
ion, to a stand-still at this most unmteresting spot. 1 came 
down, and with a bad grace, to order breakfast. 

" Garden, Cafe — oeufs a la coque — biftek — rotie — ^vite !" 
I was about repeating this in a louder tone, for the waiter 
seemed engrossed with something more important than at- 
tending to my wants. Avhen I heard a quiet voice behind 
me — 

" Gar^on, Cafe — oeufs a la coque — biftek — rotie — vite !" 
I turned angrily upon the speaker, doubtful of the design 
of this repetition of my order. 

The reader ^\^J1 perceive that my breakfast was a sub- 
stantial one ; indeed, such a breakfast as an American, who 
had not so far lost himself in " European society" as to for- 
get his appetite, would be very likely to call for. The idea 
that I was watched, doubtless made me a little suspicious, 
or sensitive, or irritable ; at any rate, I turned, as I have 
said, angrily upon the speaker. He was a slightly made, 
elderly man, at least fifty, with pleasant features, a calm 
appearance, and quiet manners — a person evidently at home 
with the w^orld. I recollected at the same moment, that 
the stranger had been at the hotel ever since my arrival 
there, although I had not, from his unobtrusive habit, given 
him more than a passing notice. His appearance at once 
dispelled the frown which I had brought to bear upon him ; 



A First Adventure. 21 

but when he answered my stare with a respectful yet half 
familiar bow, I could have sworn that it came from an old 
acquaintance. I need not say that I returned the salutation 
cordially. At the same time my new friend rose, came 
towards me, and held out his hand. 

" I am quite sure," he said, " that you are an American 
— perhaps a New Englander ; I am both ; why, then, should 
not countrymen beguile an unpleasant day in company 1 
Excuse me — I did hear your order just now, and as it suited 
my own taste, I proposed to myself that we should break- 
fast together; — we may trust to Francois; he has been 
here, to my knowledge, more than twenty years, and pleases 
every body." 

I pressed the hand of my new acquaintance — acknowl- 
edged myself to be from New Hampshire — gave my name, 
and received in return — " Philip Belcher." 

We sat down to the same table, and very soon Francois 
appeared wdth a well-served breakfast. 

" Pray," said I, " what can one do to relieve the monot- 
ony of this mtolerable place "? If the country about were 
agreeable — nay, if it were bearable ! but as it is, I repeat, 
what is to be done V 

" Done !" said Mr. Belcher, rather sharply, " a hundred 
things! Put on your Mackintosh and overshoes; come 
with me to the Courtgain, and see the fishermen putting to 
sea, their boats towed out by their wives and daughters ; a 



22 Romance of Student Life. 

sight, I will be bound, you have not beheld, although you 
may have coursed Europe over, and been at Calais half a 
dozen times." 

Mr. Belcher proceeded in this vein, detailing many 
things that could be seen to advantage even in Calais ; but 
as he suggested nothing which interested me so much as he 
himself did, I had the boldness to tell him so, and that my 
curiosity was excited to know more of him. 

"Tliere is nothing in my history that can amuse a 
stranger ; indeed, it is without incident or marvel. To be 
sure, I am alone in the world, but I have never been afflicted 
or suffered misfortune, within my recollection. My parents 
died when I was very young ; my father and mother were 
both only children ; a small property which the former left 
was carefully invested, and faithfully nursed during my 
minority, by a scrupulous and honest attorney, in no way 
connected with us, but whom my father named as executor 
in his will, and my guardian. Ill health prevented my get- 
ting on at school. I cannot say that I was an invalid, but 
my constitution was delicate and my temperament nervous. 
I tried to make some progress in the study of a profession, 
under my excellent guardian, but was forced to give it up 
as too trying to my nerves. The excitement of a court- 
room I could not endure for a day, much less for a lifetime. 
Before I was twenty -five, my income had so much increased 
that I could afford to travel. T have gained in this way my 



A First Adventure. 23 

.health, which, however, would become impaired should I re- 
turn to a sedentary life ; so, as a matter of necessity, I have 
wandered about the world. You see, my story is soon 
told." 

I found Mr. Belcher was not in the habit of talking 
about himself, and I liked him the better for it. Without 
pressing for a more particular account, I led the conversa- 
tion to treat of the different countries he had visited, refer- 
ring, by the way, to some principal objects of attraction. 
Here I touched an idiosyncrasy of my new acquaintance. 

" I never formed," he said, " any distinct ' plan' of travel. 
I never ' did' Paris in eight days, nor the gallery of the 
Louvre in half an hour, as they have been done by an ac- 
quaintance. I never opened a guide-book in my life ; I never 
employed a commissioiiere, a valet, a courier, a cicerone, or a 
dragoman. My pleasure has been to let the remarkable, 
the beautiful, the interesting, burst u^^on me without in- 
troduction, and I have found my account in it. I have 
quitted the Val d'Arno, turned off from the Lake of Como, 
passed to the other side of Lake Leman and its romantic 
castles, pursuing my way, regardless of these well-worn 
attractions, while I beheld rarer — at least less familiar 
scenes, and enjoyed with zest what was fresh nnd unhack- 
neyed. No everlasting ' route' — no mercenary and dishon- 
est landlords — no troops of travellers, travelling that they 
may become ' travelled' — but, in place of all this, I saw 



24 Romance of Student Life. 

every thing naturally — the country in its simplicity — the 
inhabitants in their simplicity — while, I trust, I have pre- 
served my own simplicity. Indeed, I rather prefer what 
your tourist calls an ' uninteresting region.' " 

" For that reason," I remarked, pleasantly, " you have 
come here to Calais to spend a few weeks ; you must enjoy 
the barren sand-plain which extends all the way from this 
to St. Omer. How picturesque are those pollards scattered 
along the road, with here and there a superannuated old 
windmill, looking like an ogre with three arms and no 
legs ! then, to relieve the dreariness of the place, you have 
multitudes of miserable cabins, grouped into more miser- 
able villages, to say nothing of the chateaux of dingy red, 
in which painters of the brick-dust school so much delight. 
Really, Mr. Belcher, you will have a capital field here !" 

My new acquaintance shook his head a little seriously, 
as if deprecating further pleasantry. 

" You are like the rest of them, I fear," he remarked, 
" a surface traveller ; at least you will force me to believe 
so if you go on in this way. To me there is no place 
unworthy of observation — no spot which does not challenge 
my attention. You are young, and have much before you. 
Take the advice of an old and, I trust, not an ill-natured 
traveller. Preserve the romantic in your heart, and you 
will never miss it by the wayside, no matter what you 
encounter, or how dull and disagreeable it may seem to 



A First Adventure. 25 

another. But come," he continued, " I will not scold you ; 
the storm threatens to last the morning ; if you wish, I will 
help to make away with part of it, by recounting a little 
adventure which happened to me hard by those very pol- 
lards which you are pleased to abuse so freely." 

It is needless to add that I joyfully assented to the pro- 
posal, and was soon seated in Mr. Belcher's room before a 
cheerful fire — for he had managed even in Calais to procure 
one — when he commenced as follows : 

"I think it was during the first season I was on the 
Continent that I visited St. Omer. After spending a day 
or two in that place, I concluded to walk to Calais, and set 
out one morning accordingly. 

" The weather was fine ; but after I had been a few hours 
on the road, the wind began to blow directly in my face, 
and soon enveloped me in a cloud of sand from which there 
seemed no escape, and which threatened actually to suffo- 
cate me. To avoid this I left the highway, but keeping 
what I supposed to be in the general direction of the road, 
I struck out into the adjacent fields. There was nothing for 
a considerable distance to repay me for this detour^ except 
that I was thus rid of the sand. The country was barren 
and unin\dting, the cottages little better than hovels, and 
the whole scene distasteful. But I pushed on, not a whit dis- 
couraged ; indeed, my spirits rose as the prospect darkened, 

and like a valiant general invading a country for the pur- 

2 



26 Romance of Student Life. 

pose of conquering a peace, I resolved in some way to force 
an adventure before I reached Calais. I trudged along for 
hours, stopping occasionally for a draught of sour wine and 
a bit of bread. I made no mquiry about the main road, for 
I preferred to know nothing of it. hi this way I proceeded, 
until it was almost night, when I spied, some half a mile 
distant, a cluster of trees surrounding a small tenement. I 
turned at once toward the spot, and coming up to it, found 
a cottage not differing in size or structure from those I had 
seen on the way, except that it appeared even more anti- 
quated. It was, however, in perfect repair, and finely 
shaded by a variety of handsome trees, and flanked on one 
side by a neat garden. The door stood open and I en- 
tered. There was no one in the room. I called, but re- 
ceived no answer. I strayed out into the garden and walked 
through it. At the lower end was a small enclosure cov- 
ered over at the top as if to protect it from the weather, 
and fenced on each side with open wire-work, looking 
through which, I beheld a small grave, overspread with 
mosses, and strewed with fresh-gathered white flowers. 
It bore no name or inscription, except the following sim- 
ple but pathetic line : 

'Enfant cherie, avec toi mes beaux jours sont passes. — 1794.' 

Surprised by the appearance of fresh flowers upon a tomb 
which had been so long closed over its occupant, T turned, 



A First Adventure. 27 

hoping to find some ex^^lanation of the mystery in wliat I 
might see elsewhere. But there was nothing near to at- 
tract one's attention, nor was any person within sight. 

" After taking a ghmce around, I went back to the cottage, 
and walking in, sat down to wait the arrival of the occu- 
pants. In a few minutes, I heard voices from the side of 
the house opposite the garden, and soon two persons, of the 
peasant class, evidently husband and wife, came in. The 
man w^as strong and robust, with the erect form and mar- 
tial appearance acquired only by military service, and 
which the weight of nearly sixty years had not seemed 
to impair. His countenance was frank and manly, and 
his step firm. The woman appeared a few years younger, 
while the air of happy contentment which beamed in her 
face, put the ordinary encroachments of time at defiance. 
Altogether, I had never seen a couple so fitted to attract 
observation and interest. They both stopped short on see- 
ing me. 

" I hastened to explain my situation, as that of a 
belated traveller, attracted by the sight of the cottage ; 
and told them I was both hungry and tired, and desirous 
of the hospitality of their roof I was made welcome at 
once. 

" Louis Herbois, for that was his name, gave me a bluff, 
soldierly greeting, while Agathe, his wife, smiled her ac- 
quiescence. Supper was soon laid ; I ate with a sharpened 



28 Romance of Student Life. 

appetite, which evidently charmed my host, who encour- 
aged me at intervals, as I began to flag. 

" Supper concluded, I was glad to accept the offer of a 
bed, for I was exhausted with fatigue. 

" I had been so engrossed with the repast, that curiosity 
was for the time susj^ended, and it was not again in action 
until I had said good-night to my entertainers, and found 
myself in the room where I was to sleep. This was an 
apartment of moderate size ; the furniture was old and 
common, but neither dilapidated nor out of order; the 
bed was neatly covered ; around the room were scattered 
several books of interest, and in one corner was a neat 
writing-desk, of antiquated appearance, with silver mount- 
ing, and handsomely inlaid ; while some small articles of 
considerable value placed on a table in another corner, in- 
dicated at least occasional denizens very different from the 
peasant and his wife. Yet this could not be a rural resort 
for any fomily belonging to the town. There were but 
two other apartments in the house, and these were occu- 
pied. Nevertheless, I reasoned, these things can never 
have been brought here by the worthy people I have en- 
countered ; and then — the little grave in the garden ? who 
has watched the tomb for so many years, preserving the moss 
so green and the flow^ers so fresh — cherishing an affection 
which has triumphed over time? How intense, how sa- 
cred, how strange must be such devotion ! I decided that 



A First Adventure. 29 

some persons besides those I had seen were concerned, m 
some way, in the history of the little dwelling, and with this 
conclusion 1 retired ; and so, bemg fatigued by my day's 
travel, I soon fell asleep. 

" I awoke about sunrise. Going to the window, I put 
aside the curtain, and looked out mto the garden. Louis 
Herbois and his wife were there, renewmg the garlands 
with fresh flowers, and watering the moss which was spread 
over the grave. It must be their own child, thought I, and 
yet — no — I will step out and ask them, and pat an end to 
the mystery. I met the good people coming in : they in- 
quired if I had rested well, and said that breakfast would 
soon be ready. ' You do not forget your little one,' I said 
to the old fellow, at the same time pointing towards the 
enclosure. 'Monsieur mistakes,' replied he, crossing him- 
self devoutly. ' Some dear friend, I suppose V He looked 
at me earnestly : ' On voit bien, Monsieur, que vous etes un 
homme comme il font. After you have breakfasted, you 
shall hear the story. ' Ah, there is, then, a story,' said 1 
to myself, as I followed Louis Herbois into the cottage, 
where Agathe had preceded us, and sat down to an excel- 
lent breakfast. When it was concluded I asked for the 
promised narration. ' Let me see,' said Louis, ' Agathe, 
how long have we been married V Agathe, matron as she 
was, actually blushed at the question, yet answered readily, 
without stopping to compute the time. ' Yes — true — very 



80 Romance of Student Life. 

well ;' resumed Louis. ' You must know, Monsieur, that 
my father was a soldier, and enrolled me, at an early age, 
in the same company with himself. Having been detailed, 
soon after, on service to one of the provinces, I was so 
severely wounded that I was thought to be permanently 
unfitted for duty, and was honourably dismissed with a life 
pension. Owing to the care and skill of a famous surgeon 
who attended me, and whom I was fortunate enough to 
interest, I was at last cured of my wounds, and very soon 
after I wandered away here, for no better reason, I believe, 
than that Agathe was in the neighbourhood ; for we had 
known each other from the time we were children. Very 
soon she and I were married, and we took this little place, 
and were as blessed as possible. 

" ' In the mean time, great changes were going on at 
Paris. The revolution had begun, and soon swept every 
thing before it. But it did not matter with us. We rose 
with the bh'ds, and went to rest with the sun, and no two 
could have been happier : am I not right, Agathe V The 
old lady put her hand affectionately upon the shoulder 
of her husband, but said nothing. 'And we have never 
ceased being happy, we are always happy ; are we not, 
Agathe V The tears stood in Agathe' s eyes, and Louis 
Herbois went on. ' Well, the revolution was nothing to 
me ; they were mad with it, and killed the king, and slew 
each other, until our dear Paris became a bedlam — still, as 



A First Adventure. 31 

I said, it was nothing to me. To be sure, I went occasion- 
ally to Calais, where I heard a new language in every 
body's mouth, and much talk of Les hommes suspects, Man- 
dats cVarrets, with shouts of A has les aristocrates, and Vive 
la Rejmblique — but I did not trouble myself about any of 
it ; Agathe and I worked together in the field, and in the 
garden, and in the house — always together — always happy. 
One morning we went out to prune our vines ; the door of 
the house was open, just as you found it yesterday ; why 
should we ever shut the door 1 we were honest, and feared 
nobody ; we stood — Agathe here on this side holding the 
vine ; I, with my knife, on the other side, bending over to 
lop a sprout from it ; when down came two young people 
— lad and lass — upon us, as fast as they could run, out of 
breath — agitated — and as frightened as two wood-pigeons. 
The young man flew to me, and, catchmg hold of my arm, 
begged me, ^owr Vamour de D'leu, to secrete his wife some- 
where — anywhere — out of the reach of the gens-d''armes 
who were pursuing them. I felt in ill-humour, for I had cut 
my finger just then ; besides, I did not relish the mention 
of the gens-d''armes : so I replied plainly, that I would have 
nothing to do with persons who were suspects. Why 
should I thrust my own neck into the trap? they had 
better go about their business, and not trouble poor people. 
Bah ! such a speech was not like Louis Herbois ! but out 
it came. Heaven knows how, and no sooner had I finished 



32 Romance of Student Life. 

than up rims the young creature, and, seizing my moustache, 
she cries, " My brave fellow, hie away, and crop off all 
this; none but men have a right to it; God grant you 
were not born in France ; no Frenchman could give such 
an answer to a man imploring protection for his wife. 
Look at my husband — did he ask aid for himself? Do 
you think he would turn you off m this way, had you 
sought his assistance to save Aerf pointing to Agathe, 
who stood trembling all the while like an aspen. " Ah ! 
you have made a mistake — I see you repent — be quick; 
what will you do with us f And she held me tight by 
the moustache until I should answer, while the husband 
stared upon me in a sort of breathless agony. I took an- 
other look at the little creature, while she kept fast hold of 
me, and saw that she was eh Men ! I see you under- 
stand me,' said Louis, interrupting himself, as he glanced 
towards his wife. ' My heart knocked loud enough, believe 
me, and there the little thing stood, her hand, as I was 
telling you, clenched fast ui my moustache — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
— and looking so full into my eyes, mth her own clear 
bright blue gazers. " Mon Dieu — mon Bleu ! Agathe, we 
must help these pauvres enfansP " You are a Frenchman 
— I thought so," cried the little one, letting go my mous- 
tache and clapping her hands. " Oh ! hasten, hasten, or we 
are lost !" " All in good time," said I, " for—" " No, no," 
interrupted she, " they are almost upon us : in a moment 



A First Adventure. 33 

we may be captured, and then, Albert, oh ! Albert, what will 
become of you ?" So saymg, she threw her arms about her 
husband, and clung to him as if nothing should part them. 
" Voila Men les femmes ; to the devil with my caution ; 
come with me, and I will put you m a place where the 
whole Directory shall not find you, unless they pull my 
cottage down stone by stone." I hurried them to the house 
and hid them in a private closet which, following out my 
soldier-like propensities, I had constructed in one end of the 
room, in a marvellously curious way. Not a soul but 
Agathe knew of it, and I disliked to give up the secret ; but 
I hurried the young people in, and arranged the place, and 
went back to the vines and cut away harder than ever. In 
two minutes, up rode three dragoons with drawn swords, as 
fine-looking troopers as one would ask for. I saw them 
reconnoitre the cottage, then, spymg me, they came towards 
us at a gallop. " What have you done with the Comte and 
Comtesse de Choissy T said the leading horseman. " You 
had better hold your tongue," I retorted, " than be clatter- 
ing away at random. What the devil do I know of the 
Comte and Comtesse de Choissy, as you call them ?" 
"Look you," said the dragoon, laying his hand on my 
shoulder, " the persons I seek are escaped prisoners ; 
they were seen to come m the direction of this cottage ; 
our captain watched them with his glass, and he swears 

they are here." " And look you. Monsieur Cavalier, I 

2* 



34 Romance of Student Life. 

am an old soldier, as you see, if scars and hard service 
can prove one, and it seems to me you should take an old 
soldier's word. I have said all I have to say ; there is my 
house, the doors are open — look for yourself: come, Agathe, 
we must finish our morning's work." So saying, I set 
at the vines agam. I looked neither one way nor the 
other, but kept clipping, clipping, thus standing between the 
dragoons and poor Agathe, who was frightened terribly, 
although she tried to seem as busy as I. The rider, who 
was spokesman, stared for a minute without saying a word, 
and then broke out mto a loud laugh. "An old soldier 
indeed ! — a regular piece of steel ! — one has but to point a 
flint at him, and the sparks fly." He turned to his men : 
" Our captain was mistaken, evidently ; this is a bon cama- 
rade ; we may trust to him. We will take a turn through 
the cottage and push forward." With that he bid me good- 
morning, and, after looking around the house, the party 
made ofl". 

' " Well, Agathe, what's to be done now f said I, when 
the dragoons were fairly out of sight. " We have made a 
fine business of it." " Ah, Louis," said she, " let us not 
think of the danger ; we have saved two innocent lives, for 
innocent I know they are : what if we have perilled our 
own? Heaven ^vill reward us." Nothing more was said, 
though we both thought a great deal, but we kept at our 
work as if nothing had happened. It was a long time be- 



A First Adventure. 35 

fore I dared let the fugitives come from their liiding-place ; 
for I was afraid of that cursed glass of Monsieur le Capi- 
taine. When I did open it I found my prisoners nearly 
dead with suspense. AVe held a council as to the best 
means for their concealment — for who would have had the 
heart to turn the young people adrift ? — and it was finally 
settled that the Comte and his wife should dress as peasants, 
and take what other means were necessary to alter their ap- 
pearance, that they might pass as such without suspicion. 
This was no sooner resolved than carried out. Agathe was 
as busy as a bee, and in a few minutes had a dress ready 
for Victorine — we were to call her by her first name — who 
was now as lively as a creature could be, running about the 
room looking into the glass, and making fun of her husband, 
who had in the mean time pulled on some of my clothes. 
After this, the young comte explained to me that his father 
had died a short time before, leaving him his title and im- 
mense estates, which, however, should he die childless, 
would pass to an uncle, a man unscrupulous and of bad 
reputation. This uncle was among the most conspicuous of 
the revolutionists. Through his agency the Comte de 
Choissy and his young wife, vdth. whom he had been but a 
twelvemonth united, were arrested, and shortly after 
sentenced to death. They escaped from prison and the 
guillotine by the aid of a faithful domestic, and were al- 
most at Calais when they discovered that they were pursued. 



36 Romance of Student Life. 

By leaving the road and sending the carriage forward, they 
managed to gain the few moments which saved them. 
Their principal fear now was from the wicked designs of 
the uncle, for the Directory had too much on their hands 
to hunt out escaped prisoners who were not specially ob- 
noxious. For some days the young people did not stir 
from the house, but were ever ready to resort to their hi- 
ding-place on the first alarm. There were, however, no signs 
of the geiis-d^armes in the neighbourhood. I went to Calais 
in a little while, and found, after much trouble, the old 
servant who was in the carriage when the Comte and his 
wife deserted it. He had been permitted to pass on with- 
out being molested, so alert were the soldiers in pursuit of 
the fugitives ; and he had brought the few effects which he 
could get together for his master on leaving Paris to a safe 
place; and, to prevent suspicion, he himself had taken • 
service with a respectable iraiteur. By degrees, I managed 
to bring off every thing belonging to my guests, and we 
fitted up the little room, in which you passed the night, as 
comfortably as possible, without having it excite remark 
from any one casually entering it. " Albert" was industri- 
ous, aiding me at my work, no matter what I was doing, 
and " Victorine," too, insisted upon helpmg my -vvdfe in what- 
ever she did, here, there, and every where, the liveliest, the 
merriest, the most innocent creature I ever set eyes upon. 
But for all that, one could see that time hung heavy on the 



A First Adventure. 37 

Comte. He became thoughtful and triste^ and, like every 
man out of his proper place, he was restless and uneasy. 
Not so the dear wife : she declared she had never been so 
happy, that she had her Albert all to herself: she wanted 
nothing more : if she but knew how to requite us^ she would 
not wish the estates back again — she would live where she 
was for ever. Then her husband would throw his arms 
around her, and call her by endearing names, which would 
make the little thing look so serious, but at the same time 
so calm and satisfied and angel-like, that it seemed as if the 
divine soul of the Holy Virgin had taken possession of her, 
as she turned her eyes up to her husband and met his look- 
ing lovingly down. . . .' 

" Here Louis Herbois stopped, and felt for his handker- 
chief, and blew his nose until the walls resounded, and wiped 
his eyes as if trying to remove something that was in them, 
and proceeded : 

" ' Any one to have seen her at diiferent times would 
have sworn I had two little women for guests instead of one : 
so full of fun and mischief and all sorts of pranks; so lively, 
running hither and yon, teasing me, amusing Agathe, rally- 
ing her husband ; but on the occasions I mention, so sub- 
dued, so thoughtful — so different from her other self : Ciel ! 
she had all our hearts. 

" ' Several months passed, much in the same manner. 
The Comte by degrees gained courage, and often ventured 



38 Romance of Student Life. 

away from the house. Twice he had been to the town, but 
his wife was in such terror during his absence that he 
promised her he would not venture again. He continued, 
meanwhile, moody and ill at ease : it would be madness to 
leave his place of concealment ; this he knew well enough ; 
still he could not bring himself to be patient. Do not 
think, Monsieur, that the Comte de Choissy failed to love 
his wife just as ever : that was not it at all. A man is a 
man the world about ; the Comte felt as any one would feel 
who finds himself rusting away like an old musket, which 
has been tossed aside into some miserable cockloft. I had 
seen the world, and knew how it was with him. But what 
could be done '? In Paris things were getting worse and 
worse. At first we had le Cote Gauche ; les Montagnards ; 
les Jacohines : then came les Patriotes de '93; and after 
that, les Patriotes par excellence^ who were succeeded by les 
Patriotes plus patriotes que les p)atriotes : and then the devil 
was let loose in mad earnest; for what with les Bonnets- 
Rouges^ les Enrages^ les Terroristes, les Biiveurs de Sang 
and les Chevaliers du Poignard^ Paris was converted into a 
more fitting abode for Satan than his old-fashioned country 
residence down below. Pardon^ Monsieur ! I am getting 
warm ; but it always stirs my blood when I recall those 
days. I see, too, I am getting from my story. Well, I 
tried to comfort the Comte w^ith such scraps of philosophy 
as I had picked up in my campaigns — for in the army, you 



A First Adventure. 39 

must know, one learns many a good maxim — but I did 
little by that. The sweet young Comtesse was the only one 
who could make him cheerful, and smile, and laugh, and 
seem happy in a natural way, for he loved her as tenderly 
as a man ever loved ; besides, the Comtesse had now a 
stronger claim than ever upon her husband. I fancy I can 
see her sitting there, her face bent over, employing her 
needle upon certain diminutive articles, whose use it is very 
easy to miderstand. Do you know, when she was at work 
on these, that she was serious — never playful — always se- 
rious ; wearing the same expression as when she received 
from her husband a tender word ! No ; nothing could 
make her merry then. I used to sit and wonder how the 
self-same person could become so changed all in one min- 
ute. How the Comte loved to look at her ! his eyes were 
upon her wherever she was ; not a word she spoke, not a 
step she took, not a motion of hers escaped him. Well, 
the time came at last, and, by the blessing of God and the 
Holy Virgin, as beautiful a child as the world ever wel- 
comed was placed by my Agathe in the arms of the Comt- 
esse. Perhaps,' added Louis Herbois, in a lower voice, 
while speech seemed for the instant difficult, 'perhaps I 
have remembered this the better, because God willed it 
that we ourselves should be childless. When Agathe took 
the infant and laid it in its mother's bosom, the latter re- 
garded it for a moment with an expression of intense fond- 



40 Romance of Student Life. 

ness ; then, raising her eyes to her husband, who stood over 
her, she laughed for joy. 

" ' Mother and daughter prospered apace. The little girl 
became the pet of the house ; we all quarrelled for her ; 
but each had to submit in turn. How intelligent ! what 
speaking eyes ! what knowing looks ! what innocently mis- 
chievous ways ! mother and child ! I wish you could have 
seen them. I soon marked a striking change : the young 
Comtesse was now never herself a child. A gentle dignity 
distinguished her — new-born, it would seem, but natural. 
I am making my story a long one, but I could talk to you 
the whole day in this way. So, the months passed on, and 
the revolution did not abate ; and the Comte was sick at 
heart, and the Comtesse was, as ever, cheerful, contented, 
happy, and the little one could stand alone by a chair and 
call out to us all, wherever we were. The Comte, notwith- 
standing his promise, could not resist his desire to learn 
more of what was going on than I could inform him of I 
seldom went away, for w^hen hawks are abroad it is well to 
look after the brood ; and as I had nothing to gain, and 
every thing to lose, by venturing out, I thought it best to 
stay at home. The Comte, on the contrary, was anxious to 
know every thing. He had made several visits to Calais, 
first obtaining his wife's consent, although the agony she 
suffered seemed to fill his heart with remorse ; this, how- 
ever, was soon smothered by his renew^ed and unconquer- 



A First Adventure. 41 

able restlessness. One morning he was pleading with her 
for leave to go again, answering her expressions of fear 
with the fact that he had been often already without dan- 
ger. " There is always a first time," said my Agathe, who 
was in the room. " And there is always a last time, too," 
said I, happening to enter at that moment. I did not know 
what they were talking about, and the words came out 
quite at random. The Comtesse turned pale. "Albert," 
she said, " content yourself with your Yictorine and our 
babe : go not away from us." Tlie infant was standing by 
its mother's knee, and, without understanding what was 
said, she repeated, " Papa — not go." The Comte hesitated : 
" What a foreboding company — croakers, every one of you 
— away with such presentiments of evil ! Go I will, to 
show you how foolish you have all been ;" and with that 
he snatched a kiss from his wife and the little one, and 
started off*. The former called to him twice, "Albert, 
Albert!" and the baby, in imitation, with its little voice 
said, " Papa, papa !" but the Comte did not hear those 
precious tones of wife or child, and in a few minutes he 
was out of sight. I cannot say what was the matter with 
me ; my spirit was troubled ; the Comtesse looked so de- 
sponding, and Agathe so triste^ that I knew not what to do 
with myself I did nothing for an hour, then I spoke to 
Agathe: "Wife, I am going across to the town." She 
said, " Ah, Louis, I almost wish you would go. See how 



42 Romance of Student Life. 

the Comtesse suffers. I am sure I shall feel easier myself." 
Then I told her to say nothing of where I had gone, and 
away I went. It did not take me long, for it seemed as if 
I ought to hasten. I got into the town, and having walked 
along till I came to the Rue de Paris, I was about turning 
down it when I saw a small concourse of people on the 
opposite corner ; I crossed over and beheld the Comte de 
Choissy in the custody of four gens-cVarmes^ and surrounded 
by a number of " citizens." My first impulse was to rush 
to his assistance, but I reflected in time, and contented my- 
self with joining the crowd. One of the soldiers had gone 
for a carriage, and the remainder were questioning him ; 
the Comte, however, would make no reply, except, " You 
have me prisoner, I have nothing to say, do what you will." 
I waited quietly for an opportunity of showing myself to 
him, but he did not look toward me. Presently I said to 
the man next me, "Neighbour, you press something too 
hard for good fellowship." The Comte started a very little 
at the sound of my voice, but he did not immediately look 
up. Shortly he raised his head and fixed his eyes on me 
for an instant only, and then turned them upon others of 
the company with a look as indifferent as if he were a mere 
spectator. What a courageous dog ! By Heaven, he never 
changed an iota, nor showed the slightest possible mark of 
recognition ; still, I knew well enough he did recognise me, 
but I got no sign of it, neither did he look towards me 



A First Adventure. 43 

again. Soon the carriage came up and he was hurried in 
by the gens-cVarmes^ and off thej drove ! I made some in- 
quiries and found that the Comte was known, and that they 
were taking him to Paris. 

" ' It seems that he had been observed by a spy of the 
uncle during one of his visits to the town, and although he 
was not tracked to his home — for he was always very 
cautious in his movements — yet a strict watch was kept for 
his next appearance. I went to see the old domestic, but he 
knew not so much as I. My steps were next turned home- 
ward. What a walk that was for me ! How could I enter 
my house the bearer of such tidings ! " Bon Bieu I ah^ 
bon Dieu^'' I exclaimed, " ayez pitie P'' and I stopped under 
a hedge and got down on my knees and said a prayer, and 
then I began crying like a child. I said my prayer again, 
and walked slowly on ; then I saw the house, and Agathe in 
the garden, and the Comtesse with the little one standing in 
the door — looking — looking. I came up — " Albert — where 
is Albert? where is my husband f I made no answer. 
" Tell me," she said, almost fiercely, taking hold of my arm. 
I opened my mouth and essayed to speak, but although my 
lips moved I did not get out a syllable. I thought I might 
whisper it, so I tried to do so, but I could not whisper ! 
The Comtesse shrieked, the child began to cry, and Agathe 
came running in. " Come with me," said I to my wife ; and 
I went into our chamber and told her the whole, and bid 



44 Romance of Student Life. 

her go to the Comtesse and tell the truth, for I could not. 
Mj dear Agathe went out half dead. I sat still in my 
chamber; presently the door opened, and the Comtesse 
stood on the threshold. Her eyes were lighted up with fire, 
her countenance was terribly agitated, her whole frame 
trembled : " And you are the wretch base enough to let him 
be carried off to be butchered before your eyes without 
lifting voice or hand against it, without interposing one 
word, one look, one thought ! Cowardly recreant !" she 
screamed, and fell back in the arms of my wife in violent 
convulsions; the infant looked on with wondering eyes, and 
followed us as we laid the Comtesse on the bed, and then 
put her little hand on her mother's cheek, and said softly, 
" Manama." In a few minutes the Comtesse began to re- 
cover. She opened her eyes with an expression of intense 
pain, gave a glance at Agathe and me, and then observing 
her child, she took it, and pressed it to her breast and 
sobbed. Shortly she spoke to me, and oh ! with what a 
mournful voice and look : " Louis, forgive me ; I said I 
knew not what ; I was beside myself. You have never 
merited aught from me but gratitude ; will you forgive 
me f I cried as if I were a baby. Agathe, too, went on so 
that I feared she could never be reconciled to the dreadful 
calamity — for myself, I was well nigh mad. I could but 
commend the Comtesse to the Great God, and hasten out of 
her sight. Five wi-etched and wearisome days were spent. 



A First Adventure. 45 

The character of the Comtesse meantime displayed itself. 
Instead of sinlving under the weight of this sorrowful event, 
she summoned resolution to endure it. She was devoted 
to her child ; she assumed a cheerful air when caressing it ; 
she even tried to busy herself in her ordinary occupations ; 
but I could not be deceived, I knew the iron had entered 
her soul. All these heroic signs were only evidences of 
what she really suffered. Did I not watch her closely 1 and 
when the Comtesse, folding her infant to her breast, raised 
her eyes to Heaven as if in gratitude that it was left to her, 
I fancied there was an expression which seemed to say, 
"Why were not «// taken?" The little one, unconscious 
of its loss, would talk in intervals about " papa ;" and when 
the mother, pained by the innocent prattle, grew sad of 
countenance, the child would creep into her lap, and putting 
its slender fingers upon her eyes, her lips, and over her face, 
would say, " Am I not good, mamma ? I am not naughty ; 
I am good, mamma." 

" ' Five days were passed in this way ; on the morning 
of the sixth, we were startled by the Comtesse, who, in 
manifest terror, came to us holding her child, which was 
screaming as if suffering acute pain : its eyes were blood- 
shot and gleamed Avith an unnatural brilliancy, its pulse 
rapid, and head so hot that it almost burned me to feel of 
it. Presently it became quiet for a few minutes, but soon 
the screams were renewed. Alas ! what could we do ? 



46 Romance of Student Life. 

Agathe and I tried every thing that occurred to us, but to 
no purpose : the pains in the head became so intense that 
the poor thing would shriek as if some one was piercing her 
with a knife, then she would lay in a lethargy, and again 
start and scream until exhausted. Not for a moment did 
the Comtesse allow her darling to be out of her arms. For 
two days and two nights she neither took rest nor food ; 
absorbed wholly in her child's sufferings, she would not for 
a moment be diverted from them. Agathe, too, watched 
night and day. On the third night the child appeared much 
easier, and the Comtesse bade Agathe go and get some rest. 
She came and laid down for a little time and at last fell 
asleep ; when she awoke it was daylight ; she knocked at 
the door of the Comtesse — all was still ; — she opened it and 
went in. The Comtesse, exhausted by long watching, had 
fallen asleep in her chair, with her little girl in her arms. 
The child had sunk into a dull lethargic state, never to be 
broken. Alas ! Monsieur — alas ! the little one was dead ! 
Agathe ran and called me. I came in. What a spectacle ! 
. . . . Which of us should arouse the unhappy Comt- 
esse? or should we disturb her? W^ere it not better 
gently to withdraw the dead child and leave the mother to 
her 7'epose ? We thought so. I stepped forward, but cour- 
age failed me. I did not dare furtively to abstract the pre- 
cious burden from the jealous arms which even in slumber 
were clasped tightly around it. Oh ! my God ! . . . . 



A First Adventure. 47 

While we were standing, the Comtesse opened her eyes : her 
first motion was to draw the child closer to her heart — then 
to look at us — then at the little one. She saw the whole. 
She had endured so much that this last stroke scarcely- 
added to her wretchedness. She allowed me to take the 
child, and Agathe to conduct her to the couch and assist 
her upon it. She had held out to the point of absolute ex- 
haustion, and when once she had yielded she was unable to 
recall her strength. She remained in her bed q^uite passive, 
while Agathe nursed her mthout intermission. I dug a 
little grave in the garden yonder, and Agathe and I laid the 
child in it. The mother shed no tears ; when from her bed 
she saw us carry it away she looked mournfully on, and as 
we went out she whispered, " Mes heaux jours sont j^assesy 
Soon the grave was filled up and flowers scattered over it, 
and we came back to the cottage. As I drew near her 
room I beheld the Comtesse at the window, supporting her- 
self by a chair, regarding the grave with an earnest longing 
gaze, which I camiot bear to recall. As I passed, her eye 
met mine, — such a look of quiet enduring anguish, which 
combined m one expression a world of untold agonies ! 
Oh ! I never could endure a second look like that. I rushed 
into the house : Agathe was already in. I called to her to 
come to me, for I could not enter that room again. " Wife," 
I said, " I am going to Paris. Do not say one word. God 
win protect us. Comfort the Comtesse. Agathe, if I 71 ever 



48 Romance of Student Life. 

return, remember — it is on a holy errand — adieu." I was 
off before Agathe could reply. I ran till I came to the 
main road, there 1 was forced to sit down and rest. At 
last I saw a wagoner going forward ; part of the way I rode 
with him, and a part I found a flister conveyance. At night 
I walked by myself. 

" ' I had a cousin in Paris, Maurice Herbois, with whom 
in old times I had been on companionable terms. He was 
a smith, and had done well at the trade until the revolution 
broke out, since then I had heard nothing from him. He 
was a shrewd fellow, and I thought he would be" likely to 
keep near the top of the wheel. But I had a perilous time 
after getting into Paris before I could find him. I learned 
as many of the canaille watch-words by heart as I could. T 
thought they would serve me if I was questioned ; but my 
dangers thickened, until I was at last laid hold of, for not 
giving satisfactory answers, as un homme sans aveu^ and 
was on the point of being conveyed to a maison dfarret^ 
when I mentioned the name of Maurice Herbois as a person 
who could speak in my favour. " What !" said one, " le 
Citoyen Herbois /" " The very same," said I, " and little 
thanks will you get from him for slandering his cousin with 
a charge of incivisme.'''' There was a general shout at this, 
and off we hurried to find Maurice. I had answered nothing 
of whence I came or where I was going, which was the rea- 
son I had, at length, got into trouble. I knew Maurice to 



A First Adventure. 49 

be a true fellow, revolution or no revolution, and so deter- 
mined to hold my peace till I should meet him. I found 
that he had been rapidly advanced by the tide of affairs, 
which had set him forward whether he would or no. 
Indeed, Maurice was no insignificant fellow at any rate. 
The noise of the men who carried me along soon brought 
him out. I spoke first : " Maurice, my dear cousin, I am 
glad to find you ; but before we can shake hands, you must 
first certify my — loyalty," I was about to say, but bit my 
tongue, and got out " civisme.''^ " My friends," said Maurice, 
" this is my cousin, Louis Herbois, once a valiant soldier, 
now a brave and incorruptible citoyen. He is trustworthy ; 
he comes to visit me ; I vouch for him." This was so sat- 
isfactory, that we were greeted with huzzas, and then I 
went in with Maurice. I need not tell you how much 
passed between us. In short, we talked till our tongues 
were tired. I found my cousin as I expected, true as a 
piece of his own steel. He had been carried along, in spite 
of himself, in the course of revolution, and had become a 
great man, as the best chance of saving his head. I told 
him my whole story, and the object of my visit. " A fruit- 
less errand, Louis," said he ; "I know the case ; and where 
personal malice is added to the ordinary motive for prose- 
cution, there is no escape. Poor fellow ! I wish I could help 
him ; but the uncle, he is in power : ah ! there is no help 

for it." Suddenly a new thought struck him. " Louis, did 

3 



50 Romance of Student Life. 

you come by the Hotel de Viller' "Yes." " What was 
going onl" "I looked neither right nor left; I aon't 
know." " Well, what did you hear ?" " I heard a cry of 
Vive Tallien! with strange noises and shouts and yells; 
and somebody said that the National Guards were disband- 
ing, and had forsaken Robespierre; and the people were 
surrounding the Hotel de Ville." "Then, Bieu merely 
there is hope. You are in the nick of time;' let us out. 
If Robespierre falls, you may rescue the Comte. He is 
in the Rue St. Martin ; in the same prison is Madame de 
Fontenay, the friend of Tallien, whom Robespierre has 
incarcerated. The former will proceed thither as soon as 
Robespierre is disposed of, to free Madame ; there will be 
confusion and much tumult. I know the keeper: I must 
be cautious ; but I will discover where the Comte and the 
lady are secured. Then I will leave you with the jailer ; 
the crisis camiot be delayed another day. Wait till you 
hear them coming, then shout Vive Tallien! run about, 
dance around like a crazy man — hasten the jailer to release 
Madame^ and do you manage to rescue the Comte — then be 
off instantly ; don't come here again ; strike into the coun- 
try while the confusion prevails. Come, let us go this 
minute." And I did go. I found Maurice's introduction 
potent with the keeper, and, what was better, I found the 
keeper to be an old companion in arms, who had belonged 
to the same company with me. We embraced ; we were 



A First Adventure. 51 

like tAvo brothers ; nothing could have happened better. I 
learned from him all I cared to know. I staid hour after 
hour; just as I was in despair at the delay, I heard the 
expected advance. I found my fellow-soldier understood 
what it meant. I began to shout Vive Tallien ! as loud as 
I could cry. In a fit of enthusiasm I snatched the keys from 
the hands of the keeper, as if to liberate the lady, while my 
comrade opened the doors to the company. I hied first to 
the Comte's room. In one instant the door was unlocked. 
" Quick !" I whispered ; " follow me — do as I do. Shout, 
huzza ; jump this way and that — but stick close to me." In 
another minute I had unbolted the door of Madame de 
Fontenay, making as much noise as I could get from my 
lungs — the Comte keeping very good time to my music. 
So, while we were shouting Vive Tallien ! at the top of 
our voices, Tallien himself rushed in with a large party. I 
took the opportunity to gain the street, and, without so 
much as thanking my comrade for his attentions, I glided 
into an unfrequented lane, the Comte at my heels ; and I 
did not stop, nor look around, nor speak, till I found myself 
under cover of an old windmill near St. Denis, where I used 
to play when I was a boy. There I came to a halt, and 
seizing the Comte in my arms, I embraced him a thousand 
times. I took some provisions from my pouch, which my 
cousin had provided, and bade him eat, for we should stand 
in need of food. We then proceeded, avoiding the main 



52 Romance of Student Life. 

road, and getting a ride whenever we could, but never wast- 
ing a moment — not a moment. I told the Comte what had 
happened, and that he must hasten if he would see his wife 
alive. At last we came near our house. The Comte could 
scarcely contain himself: he ran before me; I could not 
keep up with him. How my heart was filled w^ith forebo- 
ding ! how I dreaded to come nearer ! — but apprehension 
was soon at an end. There was my little cottage, and in 
the doorway, leaning for support against the side, stood 
the Comtesse, gazing on vacancy' — the picture of despair 
and desolation. At the sight of her husband, she threw out 
hei hands and tried to advance : she was too feeble, and 
would have fallen had he not the same moment folded her 
in his arms. 

" ' Bien^ Monsieur P continued Louis Herbois, after clear- 
ing his voice, ' the worst of the story is told. The Comt- 
esse was gradually restored to health, and the Comte was 
content to remain quietly with us till the storm swept 
past; but the lady never recovered the bright spirits 
which she before displayed, and the Comte himself could 
never speak of the little one whom he kissed for the last 
time on that fatal morning, \T*dthout the deepest emotion. 
It seems to have been destined that this should be their 
only affliction. The uncle was beheaded in one of the sud- 
den changes of parties the succeeding year, and in due time 
the Comte regained his estates. Sons and daughters were 



A First Adventure. 53 

born to them, and their family have gi'0\vn up in unbroken 
numbers. The Comte and Comtesse can scarcely yet be 
called old, their health and vigor remain, and they enjoy 
still those blessings which a kind Providence is pleased to 
bestow on the most favoured. But the Comtesse de Chois- 
sy will never forget the child which lies there. Twice a 
year, accompanied by the Comte, she visits the cottage. 
She lays with her own hands fresh flowers over the little 
grave, and waters the moss wliich overspreads it ; and the 
tears stand in her eyes when she looks upon the spot 
where we buried her first-horn. We have engaged that 
every morning we will renew the flowers, and preserve the 
mosses always green. It is a holy office, consecrated by 
holy feelings. Ah ! life is a strange busmess : we may not 
be always serious, we cannot be always gay. God grant. 
Monsieur, that in Heaven we may all be happy !' 

" I have given you the whole story," said Mr. Belcher, 
after a short pause ; " but look, the sun is out ; let us go to 
the Courtgatn." 



I retired that night ^vith a gi'eat many new impressions. 
My head was full of Mr. Pliilip Belcher, and before I went 
to sleep I took a dozen different surveys of his character. 
There was a genuineness in it which was positively charm- 
ing. To be sure, he was a little too abrupt — a little too 



54 Romance of Student Life. 

positive ; but that I oould excuse in one so many years 
my senior. I began to turn over in my mind his theory 
of travel, and this led me into a sort of review of my 
own plans. We were going to Paris to pursue a distmct 
course of study, walk the hospitals, and attend lectures — 
that was the object of our coming abroad. But along with 
this, if the truth must be told, at least so far as I was con- 
cerned, floated agreeable visions of the brilliant capital of 
France, which were not associated with the hospital or the 
lecture-room — visions somewhat indistinct, but conveying 
ideas of novelty, gayety, pleasure : embracing, perhaps, 
sight>-seeing, lion-hunting, promenades on the Boulevards, 
visits to the cafes, evenings at the opera or the saloons, 
ascending columns, traversing gardens, lounging in shops, 
witnessing the ascent of balloons, attending executions at 
the Place de Greve, and so forth ; from all which were to 
spring innumerable charming adventures. And here my 
visions would fade quite into air, and throw me back on 
vague conjecture. I admit there was nothing extraordmary 
in this — really nothing at all. To an American youth, 
brought up in all the strictness of a New England educa- 
tion, — to which I beg leave here to give my hearty com- 
mendation, — there can be no greater change than to 
transport him suddenly to Paris. The experiment is a 
hazardous one. The chances, certainly, are two to one that 
he goes to the devil, or, if he stops short of that destination, 



A First Adventure. 55 

it is with so much injury to character and person that it 
takes the gi-eater part of his life to repair damages. But I 
am digressing from my subject, which was Mr. Philip 
Belcher and his peculiarities, and the effect our intercourse 
was likely to have on me. It had already set me thinking 
in a new direction. For I had really formed no distinct 
purpose of understanding the French character, content to 
assume the commonplace and ridiculous notions usually 
entertained on the subject by those who speak the English 
tongue. Besides, I had not a thought about any part of 
France, except Paris. It had never occurred to me that 
the space between Calais and Paris was inhabited— that it 
contained human beings. Now I did think of it. A sudden 
desire arose to know something about them. How did 
they manage their every-day affairs (. what were their 
habits, their social customs ; how did they live, marry, and 
die ; what were the sports of the children, the occupations 
of the young men and women, the employments of the old ; 
and so revolving a thousand thmgs newly sprung up in 
my brain, I fell asleep. 



Romance of Student Life. 



CHAPTER 11. 



A SURPRISE. 



"Upon my word, you have taken rapidly to French 
habits. Ten o'clock — almost, and you sound asleep." 

I opened my eyes, and saw Partridge standing over me 
with a most amused expression of countenance. " My dear 
fellow," I exclaimed, starting up and seizing his hand, "I 
am so delighted to see you. Where have you been, and 
what have you been doing all this time, and — and when 
did you arrive f 

" I will tell you the whole story one of these days ; I 
got in last night after you w^ere in bed, and was coming 
straight to your room, but an odd old fellow, with very 
square-toed boots, who took the liberty of claimmg me as 
a countryman, when I entered the house, said he thought 
I had better not disturb you. One would suppose he had 
known you a thousand years : he seems to take quite an 
interest in you. Has he an unmarried daughter?" 

" It must be Mr. Belcher." 

" Who the deuce is Mr. Belcher ? But never mmd that 



ASURPRISE. 57 

now. You must hurry and dress. I have taken seats for 
both of us in the diligence ; it starts in just one hour. 
Only think of it — to-morrow night we are in Paris! 
Bravo ! huzza ! tira lara ! Come, come — en avant. ' The 
climate's delicate ; the air most sweet ;' and we set off in 
just fifty-seven minutes." 

A bucket of cold water seemed to fall with one dash 
upon my newly developed ideas of travel and wayside 
investigation. Partridge discerned something in my ap- 
pearance, for he exclaimed, " What is the matter 1 any 
thing wrong 1" 

"Oh, nothing at all; but don't you think you are a 
little hasty in your decision to push on so rapidly to 
Parish 

" Rapidly V cried my friend ; " I am sure you need not 
complain. Why, I have been pitying you the whole morn- 
ing for what you must have suffered the last five days in 
this miserable hole. I have been up since five o'clock, and 
have seen all I desire to see of this place : I want to get 
out of it." 

" But," I interposed, " suppose we proceed leisurely over 
the road, and see something of the inhabitants between 
here and Paris, and learn their manners and customs, that 
we may really know something about the French people." 

" I will lay a hundred to one that your Mr. Belcher has 

been stuffing your head with this nonsense ; indeed, the old 

3* 



58 Romance of Student Life. 

chap I tliink had some design on me, but I gave him the 
slip. Now, seriously, what do you want of these folks by 
the way *? You will see coarse peasants ; men and women 
with wooden shoes., or with no shoes, at work in the fields, 
or driving or riding a donkey small enough for me to 
put in my pocket ; people who live on bread, soup maigre 
and carrots, and who do not possess the first point of 
interest for any one. Besides, what a miserable plan for 
our becoming perfect in French. I thought I could speak 
the language like a native, and I find I can neither under- 
stand what is said to me, nor make myself understood 
in return." 

I drew a long sigh as I perceived my late visions of 
travel-life fade away, and replied almost reluctantly, "I 
suppose we must go, especially as you have engaged seats" 
— " and paid for them," interrupted Partridge ; " and more 
than that, I have paid a little Frenchman for gi^nng up his 
seat in the interieur and going into the rotonde^ and now 
we shall be seated vis-a-vis to two fine-looking women. I 
have seen them both, and I calculate on impro^dng my 
French vastly on the journey." 

There was nothing more to be said, so I hurried dowTi, 
breakfasted, we mounted into the interieur, (the ladies were 
there before us,) and away we rattled. No : we did not 
rattle away ; for just as we were about to do so, as I 
thought, the chef du bureau, or, as we would say, the " stage 



The Diligence. 59 

agent," comes to the door and proceeds to examine us by 
his list. 

" Numero 1, Madame Le Preux. Numero 2, Monsieur 
Taige." 

"That means me," cried Partridge, — '•'' Id ^ Monsieur ; 
now I know the French for my name." 

"Numero 3, Madame Vigny. Numero 4, Monsieur 
Taige encored 

" That's you," said my friend, addressing me ; " I put 
the two seats down in my name ; all right. Monsieur^ that 
IS, c' est juste y 

" Numero 5, Monsieur Le Preux. Numero 6, Capitaine 
Duclos." 

But the seat was vacant, and no Capitaine Duclos re- 
sponded. This led to a slow, careful, scrutinizing call of 
the six numbers and the six names over again, as if in some 
way it would come out right on another trial. So these 
were repeated, with considerable pause between each. Al- 
though " Capitaine Duclos" was, when reached, pronounced 
with a desperate emphasis, the "Capitaine" did not an- 
swer, and the seat remained vacant. A Frenchman when 
he is puzzled wears a singular expression of visage; and, 
strange as it may be to an American, here was matter to 
puzzle any chef du bureau of any of the messageries in 
France. If Capitaine Duclos had enrolled his name and 
paid for his seat, why was not Capitaine Duclos on the spot ? 



60 Romance of Student Life. 

It was a question that could not be answered, and the chef 
du bureau had a right to be puzzled ; still he did not relax 
his efforts. He first made the tour of the entire vehicle ; 
examined the rotonde, the coupe, and climbed up to the 
banquette; then he came back to us and made a silent 
count. Finally, he caused proclamation to be made over 
the court-yard — " Numero 6, Capitaine Duclos." 

It was all of no avail. 

Our ladies began to grow impatient. They expressed 
themselves very decidedly too. " Why should they be 
obliged to wait for Capitaine Duclos"? It was ten minutes 
past the hour — the other diligence had started — why did 
not the conducteur proceed? Such conduct was without 
parallel in the world's history," and so on. Partridge and 
myself chimed in with assenting words and gestures, and 
thus an acquamtance was established at the start, or, I 
should say, before the start. In the midst, however, of our 
energetic remarks and indignant remonstrances, Capitaine 
Duclos appeared. He did not, by any means, approach 
with the air of a man who has been the unfortunate cause of 
inconvenience to an entire company : he was not heated, or 
excited, or even in haste, nor was there any thing depreca- 
tory in his appearance. He walked with remarkable self- 
possession to the door of the interieur, coolly took an obser- 
vation to ascertain which was his seat, then with a gi^eat 
deal of deliberation selected a place for his sword, which 



Capitaine Duclos. 61 

was carefully incased ; next followed a small leathern box, 
and after that an old military cloak. Then, first glancing 
around lest he should seem at all in a hurry, he slowly 
seated himself, while the chef proceeded once more, but 
this time silently, to count our company. There was no 
difficulty now. "Numero 6" was all right; so with a 
complacent nod to the conducteiir^ which indicated that the 
arrangements were complete, the diligence was allowed 
to get under way. 

The indignation of our company against Capitaine Duclos 
speedily subsided as we were galloped out of the to^vn, 
although Partridge occasionally eyed the imperturbable 
militaire with something of a defying manner. I am not, 
however, about to make a hero of the Capitaine. I have 
given an account of his first appearance because it pre- 
sented to me a phase of French character which I had 
never before observed. He exhibited nothing of what 
is ordinarily called " French politeness," although he was 
not in any degree rude or uncivil : neither was he reserved 
after the fashion of an Englishman : but there was some- 
thing in his tout ensemble which said, "An officer of the 
army of the Grande Nation can have no apology to offer 
for keeping a diligence waiting ten minutes ;" and what is 
more, the chef du bureau appeared to be of the same 
opinion. 

But enough of our military friend. To us every thing 



62 Romance of Student Life. 

was novel, and, of course, every thing was delightful. 
The very vehicle in which we were transported was a 
curiosity ; while those little peculiarities, so insignificant 
in themselves, yet so striking to the stranger, and which 
it is hardly possible to enumerate, kept our minds on the 
alert with pleasing excitement. The rain had settled the 
dust, and the verdure of every kind was tinged with a 
deeper gi-een. The ladies who were passengers with us 
were very sociable, communicative, and entertaining ; freely 
correcting our blunders, and willmgly answering the many 
questions we crowded upon them. At length, the country 
assumed a more pleasmg aspect. We passed beautiful 
little hamlets, half hid with clustering shade-trees, m each 
of which, with its ponderous bell suspended in the tower, 
was an old stone chapel where the inhabitants came to wor- 
ship. How much I wanted to leave the diligence and walk 
through these scenes ! The graveyards, filled with strange- 
looking black crosses and fantastic ornaments, produced 
another class of impressions, which were speedily changed 
for others still. Women, with immense straw hats, were 
labouring in the fields, or going to or returning from them. 
Images of the Holy Virgin could be seen placed in small 
niches m many of the houses, and tastefully decorated. 
As we passed through the larger villages we amused 
ourselves reading the signs over the different hotels. I 
can still remember many of them — so vivid are first 



New Sights. 63 

impressions — such as " Hotel de les Syrenes''' — " Hotel de 
la Maison Blanche^'* — " Hotel du Cheval Hor^^ — " Hotel du 
Sauvac/e'''' — " Hotel des Gentilhommes^^'' and so forth. I rec- 
ollect the two last struck us as an example of the meeting 
of extremes. The donkeys we encountered by the way 
formed no trifling object of attention ; and it seemed the 
farther we advanced the smaller they became — and that 
the smaller they became, the heavier they were laden. 
What immense panniers, and what very little donkeys! 
We had great amusement at dinner in fighting our way 
through the varieties of a French cuisine^ and perceived 
very little difference in the scramble after food by passen- 
gers from a diligence and those from a stage-coach at home. 
We came back to the diligence in fine spirits. Dinner 
had put us on most excellent terms with ourselves, and 
in good humour with every body. 

"From school to Cam or Isis, and thence home; 
And thence with all convenient speed to Rome," 

repeated Partridge, gayly. 

"Go on," I cried, while I continued the quotation for 
him — 

" With memorandum-book for every town, 
And every post, and when the chaise broke down." 

— Here Partridge again took up the verse — 

" His stock, a few French phrases got by heart, 
With much to learn, but nothing to impart." 



64 lioMANCE OF Student Life. 

" You omit the best of it," said I, as my friend suddenly 
stopped — 

" Surprised at all they meet, the gosling pair, 
"With awkward gait, stretched neck, and silly stare, 
Discover huge cathedrals built with stone, 
And steeples towering high — much like our own !" 

And now Partridge insisted I should stop, declaring we 
had satirized ourselves sufficiently without my finishing 
the quotation. Then one of the ladies inquired what we 
had been saying; so we attempted a translation of the 
lines, first one taking the lead, the other correcting, and 
then vice versa, until we got the whole company laughing. 
In short, the utmost hilarity prevailed for the remainder 
of the day, and we rumbled into Amiens much more 
favourably impressed with France, Frenchmen, and French- 
women, than when we left Calais that same morning. 

Great was our progress in litigiia Franca that evening 
at the hotel, — and in the morning too, — for iimumerable 
were our demands upon man, woman, and child, in and 
about the house, and marvellous the alacrity manifested 
in answering them. 

All our company were, it seemed, bound for Paris; 
for all were ready on the starting of the "vehicle," as 
Partridge called it, and took their seats precisely as they 
did on the previous day : the door was just closing, when 



Scene AT THE Inn. 65 

Madame opposite us, who had been looking over her bill, 
suddenly exclaimed, " Tenez^ tenez un moment P'' and, 
darting out, to the astonishment of every body, she dis- 
appeared in the hotel. Presently she came running back, 
having in her hands two wax candles, which she bore away 
in triumph, exclaiming, " Mes bougies /" whereupon Part- 
ridge seemed possessed with a sudden idea, for he, too, 
rushed from the carriage, cleared the court-yard almost 
at a bound, sprang up the broad staircase, and in an 
instant came down again, also with two wax candles, which 
he exhibited to Madame with a knowdng nod, to which the 
lady replied with a sympathetic assent. The whole affair 
was Greek to me, which, however, I readily comprehended 
when Partridge exhibited our bill, in which I read, among 
other items, 

2 bougies ... 2 francs. 

" Shameful — outrageous — not to be tolerated ! " ex- 
claimed our fair friend. 

" Perfectly so," responded Partridge, seriously. 

" Voila, Monsieur^^'^ she continued, showing the ends of 
the bougies, " our candles were not lighted ten minutes, 
and to be charged a franc for each ! Heaven knows I 
don't want them" — here she wrapped them very carefully 
in some paper and put them into her bag — "but it was 
so monstrous that I would not endure it. Had it been 



66 Romance of Student Life. 

half-a-franc each, it would have been quite another 
thing." 

" Madame is perfectly right," replied Partridge, " I 
quite agree with her ; 'tis really a monstrous piece of work, 
and, as you say, little as I require the article" — and he 
thrust one without wrapper into either pocket — "I could 
not but follow your example." Thereupon, with a look 
of serious dignity, my friend settled himself once more 
in his seat. 

Without further detail, I will say that the second day 
of our journey was even more agreeably passed than the 
first. Full of excitement — and such excitement too, so 
buoyant, so ample, so unmixed, as only the young ex- 
perience — we rattled over the heavy pavements of Paris 
— Paris, city of pleasures and of scientific pursuits, distm- 
guished for frivolity, distinguished for research. Extremes 
meet once more. The Hotel Sauvage and the Hotel des 
Gentilhommes again. But I had no time to moralize. 
The bright gas-lights from the various shops and cafes 
flashed brilliantly as we passed along, while the continual 
crack of our postillion's whip seemed to invest the diligence 
and all its passengers with an additional importance. We 
dashed along the rue St. Honore and turned into the rue 
de Grenelle and brought up at the general office of the 
then messagerie Royal. A large hotel flanked one side 
of the court, and as the evening was advanced, for want 



We ENTER Paris. 67 

of a better place for logement^ we went there. The charm 
of novelty made us regard every thing as possessing a 
" pleased aspect." The morrow brought some drawbacks. 
We were astounded to find the streets for the most part 
without sidewalks, while the gutter (like the trickling gore 
from the extinguished eye of Polyphemus) — 

" Luminis effossi fluidum " 



laid its dirty course through the middle of the street. 
Several unmentionable nuisances offended our fastidious 
sense, and led Partridge to purchase a record-book for 
the entry of the particular cases which came under his 
observation in la belle Paris. But these were only trifling 
impedimenta to the ardent zeal with which we prosecuted 
our discoveries. But two or three days were spent 
rambling over the fuier part of the town, before we went 
across the Seine to examine the qnartier, which was to 
be our residence for some time to come. If we had cause 
for complaint before, what were we to say now about 
streets, trottoirs, gutters, and cleanliness, or rather filth, 
generally. It was well, after all, that we were struck 
with the worst at first, and had room afterwards to 
become interested with what had escaped our observation. 
Partridge had an acquaintance, a young medical student, 
from the state of Vermont, who lodged in the rue Copeau. 
Thither we traced our steps, and finding the number, were 



68 Romance of Student Life. 

directed how far to mount, and we ascended accordingly. 
We found Vincent (that was his name) in his room, in 
which were gathered some eight or ten students, who 
were talking and laughing, discussing politics — Alibaud 
had just shot at and missed Louis Philippe — smoking, &c., 
&c., &c. Our countryman received us most cordially, 
introduced us formally to every one of the company, 
which evidently composed a set, said it was very fortu- 
nate ; two capital rooms were vacated that very morning 
which would suit us exactly ; if we chose he would step 
at once and tell Monsieur Battz that they were taken. 
" Bravo !" shouted several, " our numbers will be kept good ; 
that is, if we can get Etienne out of the conciergeriey I 
learned afterwards that he had been arrested in that house 
a few days before, and sent to prison, for some extra 
revolutionary manifestations. 

I think Partridge and I both felt like hesitating, but we 
did not hesitate. It would have been rude to Vincent; 
besides, as absolute strangers, we could not do better than 
accept " any port" for the present, until we could see and 
judge for ourselves. So we thanked our friend and as- 
sented to his suggestions, and in three minutes Monsieur 
Battz appeared, followed by the two Mademoiselles Battz, 
by all three of whom, with Vincent for an escort, we were 
ushered into our apartments, which were really delightfully 



Monsieur Battz. 69 

situated in the rear of the house au troisieme, and overlook- 
ing a very pleasant garden. 

"I have told my friends, Monsieur Battz," said Vincent, 
" that they are to have the rooms at the same price which 
Rolles paid for them." 

" Pardon^ Monsieur Vincent, but really c'est impossible^ 
you know " 

" Otherwise I must take them across the way," con- 
tinued Vincent, coolly, "you see half the rooms over 
there are to let, and as to price " 

" Cest marche donne^'' interrupted Monsieur Battz, has- 
tily. '"'' NHmporte^fy cotisens, mais fy perds^ en verite^'' 

" I know it, I know it. Monsieur Battz," replied Vincent, 
" I know you lose money by it ; but then you are such a 
benevolent man. Monsieur Battz, and, Mademoiselles, I 
am sure you wish my friends to take the rooms f 

" Oh., certainement^ Monsieur^ assuremeni, " said both 
the young ladies, with a graceful bow and a score of 
French protestations. 

"Seven sous per bottle for red wine," continued 
Vincent to us. 

"Ten, Monsieur, ten sous," once more interrupted 
Monsieur Battz ; " ten, I repeat. Monsieur Vincent, for all, 
except my old lodgers " 

" Not including the bottle," proceeded Vincent, without 



70 Romance of Student Life. 

heeding the interruption, " but it is of course understood 
that no one keeps his wine into the second day." 

I felt almost sorry for poor Monsieur Battz, who seemed 
broken-hearted at Vincent's peremptory way of disposing 
of matters, to say nothing of the pantomime kept up by 
the young ladies with deprecatory shrugs and most ex- 
pressive grimace, as if they had said — 

"You see. Monsieur, we are actually submitting to a 
great loss in order to oblige you." 

I was on the point of doubling the price of rooms, 
wines, segars, and every thing else, so much was I affected 
by these manifestations, when it occurred to me that Vin- 
cent very naturally knew much better than I about the 
matter, so I held my peace. 

Going back to his room, we soon engaged in general 
conversation with different members of the company. 

" Ah, Partridge," cried Vincent, " I knew you would 
follow soon — I saw it in your countenance the day I 
said good-bye to you in New York. 

* Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.' 

And now you will admit it is something better 

* To see the wonders of the world abroad, 
Than living dully sluggardized at home. ' " 

" I don't know any thing about the world," said Part- 
ridge, demurely. "I came to Paris to study medicine." 



The Rue Copeau. 71 

" Oh, of course, of course, to study medicine, certainly," 
said the other, laughing, " but then you know one may " 

Here some of the party interrupted him, by saying it 
was time to go to the lecture, when there was a general 
rising, and the company set off for the lecture-room, 
while we remained behmd, in order to get comfortably 
settled in our new rooms. The house was an antique 
building of stone, erected with considerable architectural 
taste. It was very large and spacious, and had, no 
doubt, at an earlier period, been the hotel of some 
distinguished person. It was used now entirely for stu- 
dents' apartments, with a salle-a-manger below and billiard- 
room adjoining, and a wine-house close at hand. 

The next day we commenced to " walk" the Hospital 
de Noire Dame de Fitie, and were soon fairly launched 
on our new life. 

I may hereafter speak of the different members of 
our company at the rue Copeau. It will be best to 
introduce them as occasion may require. 

There was one young fellow in particular, to whom I 
took a great fancy. He was an Englishman, by the 
name of Qements, a quiet, civil person, not altogether 
resei'ved, but possessing a species of unobtrusiveness, 
which usually conceals much that is worth seeking out 
and cultivating. We became intimate. He had been 
several years abroad, and pursued medicine with an 



72 Romance of Student Life. 

enthusiasm curious to witness. His means were ample, 
and it was the mere love of his profession which kept 
him in Paris. He was, besides, a thoroughly educated 
and accomplished scholar. From the moment of our 
arrival, Clements seemed disposed to do all he could for 
us. He took pains to inform us about every thing 
desirable to be known by new-comers, and gave us 
many valuable hints as to our hospital course, lectures, 
and so forth. We used to take many walks together over 
the city, with which Clements' long residence in Paris 
had made him familiar. We indulged, too, in frequent 
discussions together, on a great variety of subjects ; some- 
times they assumed a serious phase, sometimes they were 
lively, sometimes sentimental, sometimes matter-of-fact, 
but to me always agreeable. 

Clements had one peculiarity. He was a very strong 
believer in the good faith of his own sex. He could 
not read any ordinary work of fiction, or even the merest 
story, (for almost all tales relate in some way to love 
affairs,) without losing his patience. 

As I stepped into his room one afternoon I found 
him just closing a small volume, which, as I entered, he 
tossed out of the open window with an impatient gesture. 

" How perfectly disgusted I am," he cried, " with this 
absurd, sickening, lackadaisical cant, which is for ever 
crying up the wrongs and silent endurance of injured 



The Young English Doctor. 73 

woman, and the inconstancy arid selfishness of 'tyrant 
man.' By the way," he proceeded, "do you know there 
is a class of romance writers and poets, among whom, 
I am sorry to say, are some distinguished names, who 
invariably use for a ' stock in trade' such profound 
watch-words as the following: 'With man, love is a 
pastime ; -svith woman, her very existence.' — ' Man gives 
to woman his leisure ; woman gives to man her life.' — 
'Man is inconstant; woman is true.' When I hear such 
apothegms daily repeated, and the changes rung upon 
them over and over again, (all this being predicated of 
man because he is man, and of woman because she is 
woman,) I am ready to exclaim, with the clear-hearted 
Burchell, ' Fudge !' " 

" I think you are a little too sweeping in your denun- 
ciation," I replied. " There does seem to me to be a con- 
stitutional difference in the sex; perhaps, however, it is 
but the result of education ; but for the matter of watch- 
words, as you call them, what have you to say to the 
lines of the great dramatist ? — 

* ^Were man 



But constant, he were perfect : that one error 
Fills him with faults ; makes him run 
Through all the sins : 
Inconstancy falls off, ere it begins.' " 

" I have to say," answered Clements, " that if you 
4 



74 Romance of Student Life. 

substitute 'woman' for 'man' in the passage you have 
recited, it would contain just as much truth, but not so 
much poetry, as it now does. For the same reason, I 
hold that — 'Frailty, thy name is man,' is just as true 
as — ' Frailty, thy name is woman.' No, my dear fellow," 
continued Clements, "you camiot reason me out of the 
belief, that the Deity made man as true of heart, as 
earnest in his love, as devoted in his attachment, as 
woman. The Scripture records that 'in the image of 
God created he him ; male and female created he them ;' 
and surely that work must have been well done which 
God himself pronounced ' very good !' That man has 
more to occupy and distract his attention ; that he is, 
in a majority of cases, continually engaged in a struggle 
with need, and, in consequence, that his affections are 
less seldom fixed than those of woman, is true enough. 
On the contrary, the life of woman, as society is con- 
stituted, is calculated to give to her impulses a hot-house 
growth, (I say nothing of the direction;) so that love 
with her becomes neither a healthful passion nor a refined 
friendship, but simply a feverish longing, derived from 
that strange heart-vacancy which every young girl, after 
reaching a certain age, is sure to experience. If at 
this period some natural and agreeable occupation could 
be provided, which should serve to keep both the mind 
and the heart in a healthful tone; if man could be less 



Man and Woman Discussed. 75 

engrossed with cares and woman less with — nothing. I 
believe broken hearts would be nearly equally divided 
between the two sexes. But let us have done with the 
subject. Few people agree with me, and I am myself so 
stubborn that I agree with but few ; so let us take a walk." 

I assented, and we took our course over by the Pan- 
theon and wandered into the rue cVEnfer. At length 
my companion stopped before one of the houses, and, 
pointing to a window, said : 

"I lodged in those rooms for a long time. It was 
a smgular aifair drove me away from them. I have 
never related it to any human being, and for very good 
reasons. I have half a mind to tell you the story — I know 
I can trust to your discretion — for it comes very a j^ropos 
of our conversation before we started out, and presents a 
case of devotion on the part of man worthy of record. 
I was an eye-witness of what I am about to tell you, 

and but the street is no place for my story ; here 

is a quiet spot where I used often to go. You shall 
have the narration with some of Antoine's best cafe.''' 
Clements led the way into a neat apartment, and selecting 
a retired corner, gave his order to the garcon^ which being 
supplied, he prepared his coffee, sipped a spoonful of the 
beverage, cast a glance over the room, and commenced 
as follows : 



76 Romance of Student Lifj 



CHAPTER III. 

THE STORY OF LUDWIG BERNHARDI. 

I FIRST came to Paris four years ago to attend medical 
lectures. The revolution which made Louis Philippe 
king of the French had subsided. The city was quiet, 
except when disturbed by occasional plots against the 
king's life, manifested by the letting off of pistols, blunder- 
busses, and " infernal machines," in away that none but 
Frenchmen know how to appreciate. 

There were at that time in Paris an unusual number 
of students; I suppose between twenty and twenty-five 
thousand. These w^ere made up, as you very well 
know, from almost every country upon the face of the 
globe. Nearly all of them had apartments " sur Vautre 
cote du Seine" in the part denominated "The Students' 
Quarter," quite as you now see them. By the way, 
although we form here, in a measure, a community of 
our own, still you must not suppose it is similar to a 
community of German students : far from it. For while 
the size and immense resources of Paris present con- 



The Story of Ludwig Bernhardi. 77 

tinual and varied temptations for the idler and the 
pleasure-seeker, and the excitement of politics (your 
student is always a true republican) gives a zest to 
the life even of the most studious, they serve at the 
same time to break down that barrier which always 
stands, as an absolute division, between- the students 
in German universities and the "outside" world. There- 
fore in Paris there is more of refined debauchery ; in 
the universities, more out-and-out, dare-de\'il dissipation 
and hardihood : m Paris, numerous intrigues, an occasional 
assassination, and few duels ; in the universities, less in- 
trigue, no assassinations, and half-a-dozen duels per diem. I 
need not tell you who are now living on the spot, that 
the morals of the students generally were bad — deplorably 
bad. With comparatively few exceptions, each student 
lived with his maitresse, who, besides being his faithful and 
attached "friend," (I use the parlance of the town,) per- 
formed the part of his housekeeper, saw to the prepa- 
ration of his Qctfe, and looked kindly after his wardrobe. 
These alliances, you know, sometimes continue for years, 
with fidelity upon both sides. But it is not my purpose 
to go into any detail of what has so often been spoken 
of: I only allude to it now, to make my story mtelli- 
gible. 

My lodgings were here In the rue cVEnfer^ at the spot 
I pomted out to you; several acquaintances had apart- 



78 Romance of Student Life. 

ments in the same place. Most of us attended upon the 
same lecturers and walked the same hospitals. 

Directly across the street stood an antiquated — even 
for the rue cVEnfer — stone house, on which I had never 
seen placarded ^^Apartemens a louer^^ but where lived a 
pale, slender, sad-looking, light-haired young man, who 
came forth daily and proceeded to the lecture-room or 
to the hospital. As he happened to make similar rounds 
with myself, I soon got acquainted with him ; that is, 
we spoke when we met, walked along together if we 
fell in company, and conversed, though sparmgly, on 
ordinary topics: further than this, however, I found it 
hard to push my new acquaintance. He was a native 
of Wirtemberg, and his name was Lud^^dg Bernhardi. 
There was a mystery about him which I could not 
fathom. His manner was neither cold nor distant, but 
beyond a certain point no one could get with him. He 
declined every invitation to visit, and never invited any 
one to visit him. He kept very quiet, went to no place 
of amusement, and never mingled among the students. 
There was a large garden attached to the old stone 
house where Bernhardi lodged, and a lively young 
Frenchman, of our company, one day ran through the 
hall and looked out into this garden, where he saw, as 
he declared, the pale student walking with a beautiful 
young girl. After this amiouncement the mystery for a 



The Story of Ludwig Bernhardi. 79 

time was cleared up : " Bernhardi was so engrossed with 
his '' chere amie' that for the present he cared for noth- 
ing better ;" " The Wirtemberger was no fool, after all ;" 
" The German was silent and shrewd ;" and so on and so 
forth. For myself I did not fall in with these generally- 
received explanations. There was something about that 
pale and saddened face, that suffering and subdued air, 
which was inconsistent with any of them ; at least, they 
did not satisfy me. No one had as yet got a glimpse 
of the fair maiden, except the young Frenchman, and 
he made his companions half crazy with his descriptions 
of her beauty. After a while curiosity began to prevail 
again. Singular to say, the girl was never seen to come 
to the street, either by herself or in company w^ith her 
lover. Now Bernhardi might have lodged a dozen nymphs 
in the old stone house, and not a soul would have taken 
notice of it so long as things had gone on after a natural 
way ; but when the student never walked out with his 
sweetheart, never took her to the "theatre," nor to the 
"gardens," nor to a "spectacle;" when the maid never 
appeared at the window, nor in the hall, nor at the 
little fruit-market, where ripe cherries and strawberries, 
the usual accompaniments of a student's breakfast, were 
procured by the devoted "friend;" when, to crown the 
mystery, the young girl was observed one day to come 
to the street-door, and was about passing out, while 



80 Romance of Student Life. 

Bernhardi hurried after her, and, partly by force, partly 
by entreaty, urged her away; the curiosity of every 
one was excited, and the matter became a topic of 
general conversation and remark. Notwithstanding all 
this, no person, that I am aware of, said aught to the 
student on the subject. He was an individual that 
no one would care to take such a liberty with. One 
could not but entertain a vague apprehension that by 
so doing one might rouse a sleeping devil which should 
not be so easy to lay. 

About that time a new-comer took possession of an 
apartment in our house which had been vacated a few 
days previous. He was from Marseilles ; a tall, swarthy, 
black-looking creature, brawny and muscular, a savage 
in appearance, with a reckless, swaggering gait, a bullying 
air, a fierce, impudent mien. He was just the sort of 
fellow to domineer over the timid and the yielding, and 
to hide his crest in presence of true courage and resolution. 
To persons of such description I generally give a " wide 
berth:" I would rather avoid than quarrel with them. 
There are no laurels to be gained in silencing a barking 
dog; and there is sometliing humiliating in a conquest 
over a poltroon and a coward. 

For this reason, I made it a point to have as little to 
do with Balaiguer (that was the name of the Marseillese) 
as possible. Some of my comrades were particularly 



The Story of Ludwig Beknhardi. 81 

taken by his bold front and egregious pretensions ; and 
with a certain class he got to be both leader and ora- 
cle. I soon discovered him to be an infamous creature. 
He was, besides, a miserable debauchee, and was actually 
doing serious injury to habits and morals among a class 
where habits and morals were in all conscience lax enough. 

Balaiguer was not long in getting hold of the story 
of Bernhardi. Then he swore a vulgar oath that " he 
would unearth this sly fellow; he would see whether a 
man had a right to keep his pretty mistress shut up in 
a cage like a bird. He would pay the minx a visit, and 

what was more, by ! he would carry her off, nolens 

vole?is, before the little Dutchman's flice and eyes." 

I happened to be present at this harangue, which 
was made one day to a knot of students assembled in 
the " salle-a-manger.'''' Balaiguer's announcement made me 
shudder; not that I feared for the safety of the parties 
threatened ; but a presentiment suddenly came across me 
that death would be in the mess which the Marseillese 
was brewing. 

The next day Majendie was to lecture at eleven 

upon the " cause of pulsation." I had returned from my 

usual morning visit to the hospital, where we had the 

privilege, as you now have, of " following" Louis, and was 

quietly seated at my little breakfast-table, when, after a 

light knock, the young Frenchman, who had recomioitred 

4* 



82 Romance of Student Life. 

the garden across the street, entered the room. I should 
have mentioned that he was a Parisian, of good family, 
and although gay, thoughtless, and fond of a frolic, had 
nevertheless a nice sense of honour, coupled with real 
refinement of character. 

" Do you know," said he, " that I feel reproached about 
our neighbour opposite 1 Here is Balaiguer, who swears 
that as soon as Bernhardi goes to the lecture he will 
run over and make love to his mistress : now I know 
the bete will do her some violence, and it is all owing 
to the foolish stories I have told of my seeing her in 
the garden ; I thought but to have some fun with my 
comrades ; to tell you the truth, the girl was beautiful, 
but there was something in the looks of both that has 
made my heart ache ever smce. Believe me, it is not 
as we suppose ; and yet my jokes have set on this coquin. 
What shall I dor' 

" You are a noble fellow," I exclaimed, involuntarily. 
The young Frenchman took my hand and pressed it to 
his heart. The impulsive words were appreciated. " We 
will step at once," said I, " to Balaiguer. He must not 
think of such a thing. We do not want to quarrel with 
him ; but we " 

" Fear nobody," interrupted the young Frenchman. 
" Let us go." 

Accordingly, we proceeded to the apartment of the 



The Story of Ludwig Bernhardi. 83 

Marseillese. It wanted but ten minutes to eleven. If 
I made any delay I should lose even a tolerable seat 
in the lecture-room, so I came at once to the point. 
Under other circumstances I might have been less direct. 
" Balaiguer," said I, " our friend here informs me that we 
are altogether on the ^^^'ong scent as to Bernhardi, and 
that there is nothing over the way to excite your curiosity 
or repay your gallantry. We hope, therefore, you wdll 
let our neighbour rest in peace." 

" Bah !" said Balaiguer ; at the same time putting the 
forefinger of his right hand under his eye, and pulling 
down the lower lid, he exclaimed, in a jeering tone, 
" a d'autres /" 

" I suppose I understand you," I continued. " Now look 
you. Monsieur Balaiguer, we students love fair play. I 
am no informer, but I give you notice that I shall warn 
Bernhardi of what you would be at. Good-morning." 

"You could not do me a greater favour," shouted the 
Marseillese, as the young Frenchman and I passed from 
the room. " Tell the Dutchman to hurry, for I shall make 
short work of it." 

We descended to the street, hoping to see Bernhardi 
as he came from his room ; we were too late. Our con- 
cierge informed us that he saw Monsieur leave his house 
nearly five minutes before we came down. " Hasten 
after him," said the young Frenchman. " I will not go 



84 Romance of Student Life. 

to the lecture ; I will remain in my room. Mon .Dieu I 
I am quite nervous." 

I had nearly half-a-mile to walk, or rather to run, 
for I believe I ran all the way. As I anticipated, the 
room was crowded. The lecture had commenced, for 
Majendie was punctual, and he had much ground to go 
over. A goose, which was to be dissected alive, in 
the course of his remarks, stood upon the table, in 
charge of a favourite student, and as I entered the 
familiar ^'- com'prenez-voui'' of the lecturer fell upon my 
ear. I heard nothing more. I glanced anxiously up 
and down, over and across the room, but could not 
see the object of my search. 

" What the devil is the matter with you T said my 
friend D , taking hold of me. 

" Nothing ; I want to find Bernhardi." 

" There he is, away in that corner. Don't you see him f 

I took a direct course for the corner, sometimes over 
a student's back, sometimes over the benches, and laid 
my hand upon his shoulder. " You had better go home !" 
I whispered in his ear. 

Swift as thought the German sprung to his feet. His 
face became livid ; his eyes started from their sockets. 

" Quick !" said I. 

Bernhardi had disappeared. 

I do not know how I sat out the lecture. I have 



The Story of Ludwig Bernhardi. 85 

some recollection of seeing the poor goose struggle, or 
try to struggle, and of the complacent air of the lecturer, 
as he mingled his '"'' Entendez vous P '"'Eh Men! voyez 
vous r^ with the cries of the suffering creature, while 
he deliberately cut away muscle, and nerve, and tendon, 
in the gradual illustration of his subject. But my thoughts 
were elsewhere. I saw in my mind Bernhardi and the 
Marseillese. I pictured every conceivable catastrophe; 
and so engrossed did I become in this, that the first 
hint I had of the completion of the lecture was the 
general uproar consequent on clearing the hall. I hurried 
out by myself, and hastened to the rue cVEnfer. 

Going up the staircase I saw a few drops of blood 
scattered along. At that moment the young Frenchman 
opened the door of his room, and drew me into it. 
His mirthful countenance at once relieved me. 

" Come in — come in !" he exclaimed ; " I have been 
watching for you. Balaiguer has caught it ;" and he began 
laughing immoderately. 

" Don't laugh any more, for Heaven's sake, till I know 
what it is at !" 

Whereupon, in few words, the young Frenchman 
informed me that very soon after I left Balaiguer 
crossed over to Bernhardi's quarters; that he stationed 
himself at an open window to watch the other's move- 
ments; that after the lapse of some five minutes he 



80 Romance of Student Life. 

heard a violent scream, and was about running across 
to protect the party assailed, when Bernhardi came 
tearing down the street like a madman, and rushed into 
the house and up the stairs, and in less than a minute 
the Marseillese was seen rolling from the top to the 
bottom; that he picked himself up and skulked back 
into his room, bleeding, but, as my companion feared, 
not much hurt. 

After expressing our mutual delight at the termination 
of the affair, I went to my own room. I took it for 
granted that the matter was ended, for 1 knew that 
Balaiguer had not courage to push it further, and I 
supposed that Bernhardi would rest satisfied with the 
chastisement he had already inflicted. I was mistaken; 
for in a few minutes a knock was heard at my door, 
and Bernhardi entered. He was pale as death ; his eyes 
glistened with intense hate and desperation ; his soul 
appeared harrowed by the most violent emotions ; but 
when he spoke, his words fell slowly, and were articulated 
naturally. 

" I am under an obligation to you : for that reason I 
come here. I would be still deeper in your debt. Will 
you go for me to the wretch and demand immediate 
satisfaction'? I say immediate!'''' 

" Are you not carrying the matter too far ?" said I, 
soothingly ; " has he not been sufficiently punished V 



Story of Ludwig Bernhardi. 87 

" Punished !" said Bernhardi, fiercely ; " do you know 
what he attempted ?" 

I shook my head. 

" Then it shall for ever remain unknown. Punished ! 
— one short minute, and I should have been too late ! 
Hear you that 1 Will you act for me 1 Will you act 
now 1 Will you see that we meet forthwith?" 

" That will depend on your adversary." 

" Oh, I cannot wait — I will not wait !" exclaimed 
Bernhardi : " go ! go !" 

The irresistible frenzy of the student prevailed. I 
was taken by surprise. Quiet and peaceful as was the 
life I led, before I was aware of it, I found this strange 
commission thrust upon me; and almost before I knew 
it, I was in Balaiguer's room. 

The Marseillese sat smoking, mth a light cap upon 
his head, which only partly concealed some recent 
bruises. 

" So," said the savage, " you come to have your laugh 
with the rest ! and you were the tell-tale, eh ? — you 
were the sneak !" 

" We will settle these epithets by and by ; at present 
another's business has a preference. You must be aware 
that your conduct this morning " 

" What of it r 

" Nothing, except that Bernhardi will meet you at 



88 Romance of Student Life. 

any moment you will appoint ; for him the sooner the 
better." 

" For me the sooner the better," growled the Mar- 
seillese. 

" Who is your friend f 

" Sacre bleu ! that remains to be seen. I will send 
him to you." 

I went back to my room, somewhat surprised at the 
bold bearing of Balaiguer, for I was sure that he was 
a coward, until I remembered that he was an expert 
swordsman, and that Bernhardi once told me that he 
himself had little knowledge of the weapon. 

In about a quarter of an hour an acquaintance called 
on the part of Balaiguer. As I anticipated, swords were 
chosen. As to time and place, the Marseillese was quite 
indifferent. 

There was a large hall over a billiard-room in a 
street near by, where many of the students were in 
the habit of fencing, but where, at that hour of the 
day, no one was likely to be seen. To this hall we 
agreed to repair forthwith. 

I summoned Bernhardi, and, accompanied by another 
friend, according to arrangement, we proceeded to the 
appointed place. 

The German grew more and more excited. Never had 
I witnessed such an awful manifestation of human passion. 



The Story of Ludwig Bernhardi. 89 

"Are you expert with the small-sword f said I, as 
we went along. 

"It matters not how expert I am; I shall pass my 
weapon through his heart !" 

These words were spoken slowly and deliberately, 
yet the speaker was boiling with rage. 

We entered the hall. Balaiguer and his friends were 
on the spot. Bernhardi took no notice of any thing. 
His eyes glared more horribly than ever ; a white foam 
gathered on his lip. 

Balaiguer seemed in spirits. He was evidently de- 
lighted at the excitement of his adversary, and confident 
in his own skill. 

The preliminaries were soon settled, (for a student's 
duel was no very serious affair, it rarely being a matter 
of life and death, generally ending in a scratch, or at 
most a flesh-wound,) and the parties stepped forward for 
the encounter. 

I looked at Bernhardi with a curious eye. His " case" 
was a phenomenon in physiology ; for excited — nay, almost 
raving — as he was, I perceived that physically his muscles 
were firm; there was no tremor in a single nerve. 
Dupuytren himself, at the moment of commencing the 
most serious operation, never carried a firmer hand. 
When he looked his adversary for the first time in the 
eye, he could scarcely contain himself. 



90 Romance of Student Life. 

The signal was given. 

" Beast !" screamed Bernhardi, as he brought his sword 
awkwardly to a guard, " shall I kill you at once, or shall 
I do it with a ' one, two, and three V Is a moment's time 
worth any thing to you? If so, you shall have it; for 
a moment saved herH 

Balaiguer smiled triumphantly at this new proof of 
his adversary's frenzied state, and made an ordinary pass 
with which to commence the combat. Their swords met 
for the first time. 

" Now for it !" said Bernhardi. " One," (a pass, par- 
ried by Balaiguer ;) " two," (parried also ;) " three !" The 
Marseillese fell, thrust through and through ! 

Bernhardi gazed at the dead man for an instant. 
" Dog !" he exclaimed ; then, throwing down his sword, 
he clutched my arm, and clinging to it convulsively, he 
tottered down into the street. 

I supported him to my apartments. He was as weak 
and powerless as an infant. In the course of an hour he 
regained sufficient strength to walk home without assist- 
ance, and extorting a promise from me to visit him the 
next morning, he went away. 

I bolted my door, and, throwing myself into a 
chair, remained the rest of the afternoon and all 
the evening sitting quite alone. At length I went to 
bed, but I could not sleep. Whichever way I turned, 



The Story of Ludwig Bernhardi. 91 

the form of the Marseillese, cold, stiff and stark, lay- 
stretched out before me. The fierce whiskers, the grim 
moustaches, and the savage beard, curled as fierce and 
as grim and as savage as ever, as it were in mockery 
of the pallid features they once so gayly adorned ; while 
close at hand stood Bernhardi, his sword dripping with 
blood, the very incarnation of an exulting fiend. Not 
for one minute did I close my eyes the whole night, 
for when I attempted it the images grew more horrible, 
and I was forced to open them in order to dispel the 
illusion. 

I tried to believe the whole a dream, that I had 
been oppressed by a horrible nightmare. I could not 
realize that I had been so suddenly arrested, turned 
from my quiet, unobtrusive way of life, and made to 
participate in the death, not to say murder, of a fellow- 
creature : it seemed as if the morning would bring some 
relief, and for the morning I anxiously watched. 

It came at last, but I was in no haste to stir out. 
At length a knock at my door roused me. It was the 
young Frenchman, and I rose to admit him. He told 
me about what I feared to ask. Balaiguer was discov- 
ered early in the evening by some students who repaired 
to the hall to fence. They gave the alarm, and the 
police took the matter in charge. Three students, ac- 
quaintances of the deceased, were missing; (they were 



92 Romance of Student Life. 

the two friends of Balaiguer and the young man ' who 
with me acted as friend to Bernhardi, who fearing the 
annoyance, if not the danger, of a legal investigation, 
had immediately left Paris;) it was understood that 
Balaiguer must have fallen in a duel, and it was a 
natural conclusion that the three who fled were his 
antagonist and the second of each party. So suddenly 
had the affair sprung up, so suddenly had it terminated, 
that not a soul beyond the person* present, except the 
young Frenchman, who could guess the truth, knew or 
suspected any thing relatmg to it. The latter now begged 
me to rise, and appear as if nothing had happened, and 
insisted that I should take my coffee w^th him. 

I asked for Bernhardi. The young Frenchman had 
not seen him, but, singular to say, his name had not 
been mentioned in connection with the tragical affair. 
Two strong cujds of the best coffee, with the usual accom- 
paniments of a roll, two eggs, and a plate of fruit, did 
much to restore the steadmess of my nerves, which had 
been, I admit, considerably shaken. 

Recollecting my promise to visit Bernhardi, I crossed 
over soon after breakfast to see him. 

He was standing at the door of the conciergerie^ appa- 
rently waiting for me. 

He took my hand as I came up, and inquired anx- 
iously how I was. As for himself, his countenance had 



The Story of Ludwig Bernhardi. 93 

resumed its pale, saddened expression ; no trace of the 
passions, which had been so terribly roused, appearing 
there. 

He requested me to go with him to his room, and 
I willingly assented. We entered it in silence. Bernhardi 
pointed to a chair, and I sat down, while he took a seat 
near me. I glanced over the apartment. It bore traces, 
all around, of the presence of — woman. It was fur- 
nished with admirable taste, and ornamented mth pictures, 
engravings, and embroidery. Folding doors, which how- 
ever were closed, led into another room, and with the 
one we were in, evidently formed a suite. I had scarcely 
time to finish this rapid inspection, when one of these 
doors opened, and, I speak considerately, the loveliest, 
niost angelic-looking being I ever beheld, entered. Her 
face was as faultless as the Madonna of Correo-ffio, her 
form as perfect as the Venus of Phidias, her countenance 
absolutely lovely and serene; her eyes were a deep 
hazel, and the heavy tresses of her rich brown hair 
were exquisitely braided over her temples, and wreathed 
around the back of her head. She walked slowly forward, 
and, as if unconscious of my presence, approached Bern- 
hardi, and throwing her arms over his shoulders, pressed 
him fondly, while she exclaimed, " Dear, dear Ernest, have 
you returned at last ? Oh ! do not go out again !" 

Bernhardi shrunk from the embrace as if suddenlv 



94 Romance of Student Life. 

bruised by a blow, while his countenance exhibited signs 
of physical pain and suffering. He rose quietly from 
his seat, and, putting his arm around the lovely intruder, 
led her gently back to her apartment, without any 
resistance on her part. As she was leaving the room, 
she turned her eyes casually upon me; at once a hor- 
rible suspicion darted through my brain, my heart 
beat violently, my knees shook together, I almost gasped 
for breath. Bernhardi closed the door and resumed his 
seat by me : his countenance was troubled ; he looked in 
my face sadly ; after a while he spoke. 

"I asked you to come here that I might give you 
the explanation to which you are entitled. Rumour and 
gossip have doubtless been busy with me. I care for 
neither, and although I have no desire for notoriety, I 
am indifferent to it. You have laid me under an obli- 
gation which I can never remove, and one which peremp- 
torily demands that I should explain all to 3^ou. I shall 
be brief, just as brief as the bare recital will permit. 
Will you listen f 

I bowed assent. 

"I am a native of Wirtemberg. I was born in the 

little village of . My father was a wealthy peasant, 

and I am an only child. I was brought up tenderly, 
and as I was said to manifest considerable wit and 
intelligence, my father determined to educate me. In 



The Story of Ludwig Bernhardi. 95 

the same village dwelt a widow lady, whose husband 
had been an officer of some distinction under Napoleon. 
Upon his death his widow had come back to her native 
place, bringing with her an only child, a little daughter 
of some seven or eight years of age. I was then about 
ten. The widow's fortune was small, but sufficient for 
the simple habits of the place she had chosen for her 
home. My father had known her when a young girl, 
and with my mother often called at her little cottage. 
In this way Rosalie and I were thrown much together. 
Indeed, after a while we were almost inseparable. In 
our sports and plays I was always Rosalie's bachelor. 
I used to call Rosalie my little 'wife' and she called 
me her little ' man.' This was without any reflection 
on our part : neither of us were old enough to think 
seriously. 

"At length the time arrived when I was to go away 
to school. I suppose I was twelve years old, and took 
leave of Rosalie with a heavy heart. I really think at 
that early age I loved her. Well : years ran along. 
From school I went to Heidelberg. I was ambitious, I 
w^as full of energy, and my love for Rosalie preserved 
my boyish purity of heart. Year after year, as I visited 
my home, I was surprised to find in her some new 
grace, some new charm, some new beauty. At sixteen, 
she seemed to me all that could be imagined of what 



96 Romance of Student Life. 

is lovely and beautiful. A delicious ecstasy floated 
through me when I felt that she would one day be mine. 

"But I had a drawback to my happiness. In spite 
of every effort to believe the contrary, I could not 
feel in my very heart that I was loved by Rosaiie 
even as I loved. True, she was fond of me, but it 
seemed rather the attachment to be felt for a protector 
or a brother, than the devotion of love to love. 

" I nursed myself with hopes. / had never loved but 
Rosalie; no one had ever loved me but Rosalie; and 
who could expect that a young girl should show the 
same deep devotion that marks a powerful, manly heart 1 
This was the way I reasoned. Rosalie, I was certain, 
kept nothing from me. She told me every thing. She 
said she loved me as well as she loved her mother ; 
ought I not to be satisfied ? But when I pressed her to 
my heart, I felt not that electrical affinity which cements 
in one hearts which are united ; still I did not com- 
plain: how could I complain, when Rosalie told me I 
was all to her *? 

"I passed three years at Heidelberg, and then went 
to Munich. having determined on medicine, I pre- 
pared to follow the study with devotion. I had been at 
Munich nearly a year, and I yearned to come home 
and see Rosalie. I had stayed away longer than usual, 
because I wished to take a degree in my profession; 



The Story of Ludwig Berxhardi. 97 

then I felt that I could elahn Rosalie for my Avife. 1 
did go home. Let me hasten my tale. I greeted my 
parents; every thing was well. I hurried to Rosalie; 
she was well too. She ran out to meet me. She was 
delighted to see me. Never had she looked so beau- 
tiful. As we entered her mother's house together, she 
exclaimed: 'We have a guest — a charming guest; a 
son of my father's dearest friend. He has been with 
us for a month, but must soon return to Paris; and 
I shall miss him so !' 

" My broAV grew overcast ; my heart sunk. I said 
nothing ; I believed my destiny sealed. I did not even 
look upon Rosalie reproachfully. How could I look 
reproachfully upon her ? — for her soul was pure ; it 
knew no guile; it was incapable of concealment, or 
coquetry, or caprice. 

" Suffice it to say — for the narration is too much for 
me — that on entering the cottage I found a young and 
handsome French officer. He was, as Rosalie had said, 
the only child of her father's dearest friend, and had 
sought out the widow at his father's request. Hear 
me," whispered Bernhardi, while he drew his chair nearer 
to me. "I made friends with that young officer. With 
the closest observation I sifted him as wheat. I found 
him honourable, high-minded, good-tempered, pure. I 
satisfied myself that Rosalie loved him, (poor child ! 



98 Romance of Student Life. 

she did not know it ;) I sought an interview with 
Ernest de Fleury — that was his name; I pressed the 
secret fi'om him, which he swore should otherwise never 
have been revealed, for he knew that Rosalie was my 
betrothed. Then I turned, and went for Rosalie. I had 
a long, long interview -with her. For Heaven's sake, let 
me hasten!" gasped Bernhardi. "You — you — guess the 
rest ; guess it all. The sweet angel was sweeter than 
ever; but — but — I got at the truth. She protested that 
she would never, never give me up; those were the 
words, ''give me up.'' That was noble; and then she 
pitied me; but I was not to be thwarted. I took her 
with me to the cottage. Ernest de Fleury was there. 
I joined their hands and ran out — I ran home, and — 
and — old as I was, I threw myself into my mother's 
arms, and burst into tears. Oh! Great God of this 
strange universe! what is like unto a mother's love? 
There I sat all of the day — all of the evening — my 
head pressed against the breast that had given me life 
and nourishment, and there, in broken sentences, amidst 
sobs and tears and groans, I told her all. And my 
mother, how she sympathized with every heart-pang ! 
how entirely did she understand my feelings and my 
motives! how tenderly did she intwine her arms around 
me, until at last I fell asleep upon her bosom ! 
" The next day I returned to Munich. 



The Story of Ludwig Berniiardi, 99 

" How long I should have remained, away 1 know 
not ; but at the end of a twelvemonth I heard from my 
parents that a fearful epidemic was raging in my native 
village, and that they desired to see me. I went home. 
The village was in mourning; a malignant fever was 
carrying off the inhabitants. Eosalie's mother had just 
expired, and Rosalie herself lay sick unto death. My 
parents had thus far escaped. 

" I went at once to Rosalie's cottage. I became her 
physician, attendant, nurse. I watched night and day. 
The fever had reached its height, the crisis had come, 
and Rosalie opened her eyes on the fearful morning 
which should decide her fate. I saw that she was 
saved. A grateful look of recognition beamed in her 
countenance. She was very weak, but the danger had 
passed. 

"The next morning fatal news came to the village. 
A letter to Rosalie's mother, now no more, announced 
the death of Ernest de Fleury. He had been seized 
with Ha grippe^ then the prevailing epidemic in Paris, 
and had died in six hours. 

"Rosalie was the first to see the letter. One glance 
was enough; she fell back in my arms, in violent con- 
vulsions. 

" Days and weeks and months 1 watched by her bed- 
side. At length her strength returned; the bloom once 



100 Romance of Student Life. 

more freshened her cheek. I was full of hope. One 
morning, as I entered, she sprang up from the bed, 
and throwing her arms around me, she exclaimed, (as 
you heard her exclaim but just now,) 'Dear, dear Er- 
nest! have you returned at last? Oh! do not go out 
again !' 

"Then my cup of misery was full. My Rosalie, 
Ernest's Rosalie, was — imbecile ,'" 

Bernhardi paused ; he spoke not a w^ord for five min- 
utes ; then he said: "You know the whole. She thinks 
that I am her Ernest, and she is happy in my presence. 
Physically, she enjoys the extreme of health; mentally, 
alas ! she is no more ! I came with her to Paris, hoping 
that the change would benefit her, for Ernest lived here ; 
but it is of no use. My prayer is that my life may be 
spared to outlast hers; for what will become of her 
when I am no morel Do you blame me for assuming 
the execution of the law upon that wretch 1 You can- 
not blame me. I blame not myself. 

" My life is devoted to her. I honour my Maker, who 
has given in Christ Jesus the great example of a dis- 
interested love. Who is so selfish as to whisper to me 
that ' love must be mutual V I acknowledge the devo- 
tion of woman. I know that often she dies of a broken 
heart ; but I live broken-hearted !" 

Bernhardi had finished. I took his hand and pressed 



The Story of Ludwig Bernhardi. 101 

it in silence, and came away. That afternoon I quitted 
Paris en route for Italy. 

On my return here, after the lapse of more than 
a year, I made inquiry for Bernhardi, and learned that, 
several months before, he had left the city with the 
unfortunate Eosalie, and had gone no one knew whither. 



102 Romance of Student Life. 



CHAPTER IV. 

RAMBLES OVER PARIS. 

Every day I took a walk by myself over some por- 
tion of the city. My plan was desultory, but not irregular. 
There was no method, yet there was a purpose in it, viz., 
to know what was going on in Paris. Perhaps strolling 
about the streets was not the best way to find out, but 
none better occurred to me. 

In these walks I was continually stumbling on objects 
of interest, or chancing on some little adventure. I would 
sometimes drop quietly into the little shop of the charhon 
and faggot-vender, and listen to the history of his trials 
and struggles — for all charbon and faggot-venders, be it 
known, have their trials and struggles ; — besides, I was 
interested to learn the cause of the extravagant price of 
fuel, for in cold weather our pockets were nearly drained 
in the attempt to make ourselves comfortable. 

I frequently introduced myself into the little niche, 
where a smiling, cheerful, and vivacious cobbler ham- 
mered away from morning to night under the protection 



Jacques Tourneau. 103 

of the Holy Virgin, whose image, adorned daily with 
fresh garlands, was placed directly over the entrance. 

A rare fellow was Jacques Tourneau, with whom 
the world always wagged happily and well : with a 
pleasant word for every body, a joke for all occasions, 
and keen perceptions to season it, with a good-tempered 
wife, (taking his word for it,) and half-a-dozen healthy 
children, Jacques was, all things considered, the hap- 
piest fellow I met in Paris. I learned many philosoph- 
ical lessons from Jacques Tourneau. 

Occasionally I would stroll into a church and see what 
sort of persons in Paris were devout. Then, perhaps, 
I would take a walk in the gardens of the Luxembourg, 
for I confined myself, generally, to our o^^^l side of 
the river. I confess that the gardens attracted me 
greatly. A great variety one could see there. Old, and 
middle-aged, and young, with scores of children, sitting, 
walking, rumiing, frolicking. A rare place for me were 
these gardens of the Luxembourg! 

Then, again, the Hotel des Invalides : I have passed 
hours quietly watching the veterans who lounge about 
the grounds. Especially can I now call to mind a 
sturdy old fellow, with tivo wooden legs, and but one 
arm, and marks of many a cut upon his face, who used 
to sit just two hours every day on one of the stone 
benches, in the Place de Vauban, fronting the Hotel, 



104 Romance of Student Life. 

and who, with countenance calm and unmoved, placidly 
contemplated whatever passed around him. I never saw 
him exchange a word with a brother soldier, although 
frequently seated on the same bench. Had I not feared 
some misinterpretation of my motives, I would have 
addressed him. But there was something in those 
truncated limbs, and in that scarred visage, which for- 
bade an ordinary intrusion. 

The inmates of the Hotel des Invalides wear no appear- 
ance of disappointment or discontent. They feel that it 
is an honour to be pensioners of France ; so that one 
beholds no forlorn looks, no depressed glances, nothing, 
in short, of that unpleasant expression of countenance 
which is almost always observed in retreats for the 
decrepit and the old. 

The stranger who visits the chapel of the Invalides 
will encounter few of the inmates, unless at the time 
of service ; but there are always a small number who 
can be seen kneeling, repeatmg a prayer, or going 
through with their Ave, Credo, or Confiteor. After a 
"fitful fever" of marches and assaults, of sieges, sorties, 
and pitched fields, of fierce pursuits and sullen retreats, 
of bloody defeats and bloodier victories, it is a touch- 
ing sight to behold the soldier kneeling before the 
cross, asking forgiveness and absolution. 

I observed an elderly officer, who appeared much 



The Melancholy Officer. 105 

superior to the majority of his confreres^ and who 
came very regularly to the chapel. He was about 
fifty, tall and slender, with a serious countenance, and 
an air of habitual depression. He used to kneel with 
so much devoutness, and repeat the prayers so earnest- 
ly, and afterwards come away with a look so melan- 
choly, that it touched me to the heart to witness it. 
He had not been wounded, so far as I could see; he 
had lost none of his limbs, but his face was pale and 
wasted, and loose, straggling gray hairs were scattered 
over Tiis forehead. 

How much it adds to the intenseness with which we 
regard misfortune or calamity, to separate some individual 
object, and fix our attention on it! I believe one could 
easily become utterly miserable by this very process. 
I have myself, in this way, on many occasions, been 
made wretched enough, and only escaped by turning to 
the brighter scenes of life. So it is always; light and 
shade — light and shade again. But without light and 
shadow can there be a picture ? There is, at the same 
time, a fascination in the contemplation of great suffering 
difficult to explain. Perhaps it may be traced to the 
unconscious sympathy we feel with whatever is intense, 
whether it be ecstatic or agonizing, and which underlies 
almost every other emotion 

On one occasion, in turning to leave the chapel, when 



106 Romance of Student Life. 

I was standing near the door, the melancholy officer of 
whom I have spoken dropped his handkerchief. I picked 
it up, and observed, as I took it in my hand, that it was 
of a description used only by ladies. I stepped at once 
towards the owner, and gently touching his arm, I said : 

"Your handkerchief, sir." 

A faint, hectic blush overspread his cheeks. 

He seized it almost eagerly, gazed at it an instant 
with much tenderness, as though it were some dear 
object, and put it in his bosom; then taking my hand 
in both of his he pressed it silently. 

"I am very glad," said I, "that I discovered it in 
time." 

" It was my wife's." 

His lip quivered slightly, but he showed no other 
signs of emotion. Still he retained my hand. 

"Forgive me," I exclaimed, "I have mtruded on 
feelings which are sacred." 

" Monsieur shows that he has a heart." 

He pressed my hand once more, bowed low, and 
walked away. 

I do not think I can ever forget that old French 
officer. Although I used frequently to see him after this 
occurrence, I never accosted him again. Yet I busied 
myself, at times, imagming what had been his peculiar 
griefs. 



The Melancholy Officer. 107 

His w\fe. It was his w\feh handkerchief. Her mem- 
ory %yas all he had to cling to. Children none: rela- 
tives none. She had been to him his sole and only- 
friend, and she was gone. That was it. Perhaps — I 
carried my conjectures further — perhaps he had not been 
as affectionate, as constant, as kind, while she lived, as 
he now felt he ought to have been, and, like too many 
who do not 

" understand a treasure's worth 



Till time has stolen away the slighted good," 

he had appreciated her too late. Perhaps he was now 
tortured by a recollection of her last sad, yet not re- 
proachful look, and cherished, as a part of his existence, a 
tender though unavailing remorse. But whatever might 
be his personal history, I felt an assurance that his 
daily prayers and supplications were not put up in 
vain. 

I have mentioned the gardens. The most joyous 
sio-ht to be met with in Paris, is that of the children 
who congregate there; hopping, running, skipping, play- 
ing puss-puss-in-the-corner, (a tree for each corner,) and 
even blind-man's-buff. As my friend Clements remarked, 
it always seems as if French children were very pre- 
cocious to have acquired a foreign language so young. 

There was one charming, ruddy, brown-haired little 



108 Romance of Student Life. 

creature, about four years of age, who interested me 
greatly. She was so full of childish spirits; her laugh 
was so clear and so mirthful ; her voice, though infantile, 
was so sweet, and her motions so light and airy, as she 
flew from spot to spot, that I became absolutely fasci- 
nated. An elderly woman, plainly dressed in black, sat 
always on one of the benches near by, engaged usually 
with her needle, or in knitting. I observed that she 
watched the child's movements continually, with eyes 
beammg with affection. Could she be the mother? 
Certamly not. The nurse, perhaps? No. I was not 
satisfied to call her the nurse. She did not wear the 
expression which smacks of service, and which is gene- 
rally unmistakable. 

I seated myself one day on the same bench with 
the good dame. "What a beautiful little child!" was 
my first observation to her. 

"Which one, Monsieur?''^ — She knew very well, with- 
out asking. 

I pointed out my favourite, who, with several of her 
playmates, was frolicking a few steps from us. 

" Ahj that is my little Annie, my grand-daughter." 

" Indeed ! and its mother ?" 

"She is all I have left. Monsieur. ^^ 

The French have more delicacy than any other peo- 
ple in conveying a melancholy idea. 



Little Annie. 109 

" How you must love the little creature !" I exclaimed, 
involuntarily. 

"Indeed, Monsieur,^'' she replied, "I see my lost 
Annie living her life over again; she is the very 
same, just as she looked, just as she acted." 

At this instant little Annie ran up, and bounding 
into the old lady's lap, cried, "Mamma, I have some- 
thing to tell you — hold down your face;" with that she 
gave the ear, which was thus brought within reach, a sly 
pinch, slid down, and darted away ; she returned almost 
in the same moment, resumed her place, kissed the 
" poor little ear," as she called it, and once more ran off. 

"Just as I was saying to you, sir, she has all her 
mother's sweet ways, and I have taught her to call me 

'mamma,' and it seems but no, I cannot lose sight 

of my child^ my first Annie, who ivas like this one, 
and who grew up to be a girl, and then to be a 



The old lady's eyes filled with tears. 

"And she died?" 

" Her husband died first. That nearly killed her. 
Then she took a fever. I did all I could — -nothing 
availed. I nursed her — I gave her every thing with 
my own hands, and she would say, ' My mother, 
do not do this, you will fatigue yourself; I feel easier 
now; go — do go, and get some rest.' But I could not 



110 Romance of Student Life. 

leave her. Sometimes she made me recline on her bed, 
and put my arms around her, and then she would look 
into my face and smile. Oh, could you but have seen 

that smile ! Alas ! notlimg could 

save her. We had a noted physician from the Hotel 
Dieu : he would come two or three times a day, and 
take hold of Amiie's hand and say, 'My poor child, 
what makes you so sickf Then he would encourage 
her, and speak so kindly that 1 could have fallen on 
my knees and blessed him. He was with us when she 
died; he wept like a child, and " 

The recital was too much for the poor woman. She 
placed both hands before her face, vainly endeavouring to 
prevent the tears, when little Annie, happening to see 
it, ran towards her, all in a glow as she was, and, 
springing into her favourite place, threw her arms 
around her grandmother's neck, and by every term 
of endearment and affection, by kisses and caresses, at- 
tempted to moderate her grief 

It was more than 1 could endure. I turned and 
walked hastily from the spot ; my eyes were moist too, 
and once away from observation, I drew my handker- 
chief from my pocket and wiped them. 



Students' Nonsense. Ill 



CHAPTEK Y 



STUDENTS NONSENSE 



A CLEVER knot of young fellows were assembled 
aroimd the door which led into the garden adjoining the 
house in the rue Coinau. I do not know why students 
are so much in the habit of congregating around the 
threshold of an outer door. Such is the fact undeniably. 
Who will undertake to explain it? 

It was a fine, pleasant day, in the fall of the year. 
The leaves were beginning to drop off, and the air was 
autunmal. One by one, as they left the salle-a-manger^ 
the young men passed out into the garden with pipes, 
meerschaums, and segars; some with books in their 
hands: most wore caps, but a hat here and there could 
be seen on the head of some resolute American, who in 
this way showed his contempt for prevailing customs. 

Of the company, one was a Pole, two were English, 
three American, two German ; there were also an Italian, 
an Irishman, and a Genoese, besides several the place of 
whose nativity had never transpired. They were, for the 



112 Romance of Student Life. 

most part, diligent students, somewhat reckless of the 
ordinary demands of society, but having a decided pur- 
pose in view. The majority were studying medicine. 

The Irishman was a Roman Catholic, and devoted him- 
self to theology. His name was James Daloney. Where 
he now is, I do not know. He was about taking orders, 
and is, doubtless, labouring some where in his holy calling. 
Should his eye chance to fall upon this page, I beg to 
send him a friendly greeting, for I am sure he will not 
have forgotten his sojourn in the rue Co])eau^ nor his 
companions there. 

One of the Germans was named Franz von Herb erg. 
He was a painter, devoted soul and body to his art. He 
was open-hearted and sincere, somewhat sensitive to criti- 
cism, refined in character, of an exquisite humour, yet 
subject to fi'equent depression of spirits. 

The other German, Jacob Wahlen, was a student of 
philosophy, full of mysticism and Spinoza. 

The Italian and Genoese — so they were always named 
— came to the house together, and were much in each 
other's society. They had incurred, I imagine, m some 
way, the resentment of their respective governments, 
and were now exiled. 

The two Englishmen were as unlike each other as was 
possible for two persons to be. One was conceited, and 
a cockney ; the other was my delightful friend, Clements. 



A Good Shot. 113 

Vincent, Partridge, and myself, with three or four 
others, completed the group. 

" What is the news to-day "?" said Vincent. " Has 
any one been on the other side? is Louis Philippe re- 
covermg "?" 

No one knew. 

"I was down in the country yesterday," said the 
cockney. " Lord Roslin, the brother-in-law of the cousm 
of our ambassador, mvited me. 'Pon my word, we had 
such a capital time. I am to go out shooting with him next 
month — such a box as he's got : he's such a sportsman, 
too ; he told me he shot thirty-three hares in England one 
morning before breakfast." 

" He must have been firing at a wig," said Partridge. 

A general laugh followed this sally, which the other 
did not seem to comprehend, for he went on in the same 
tone, not heeding the interrujDtion. 

" By the way, Franz, when are we to see the new 
painting f asked I. 

'• Never, I fear," said Franz ; " 1 have tried to paint the 
man, and " 



" You can't get the right ex2)ressio7i^ I suppose," said 
Daloney. 

" Go to the Morgue^'' said one. 
" Or to the public executioner." 
" You should have been here in '30," said the Italian ; 



114 Romance of Student Life. 

" that would have been a time for taking dead men in all 
shapes." 

" Gentlemen, you don't understand me. You speak as 
if I wanted to get upon my canvass the characteristics of 
death ; that, I admit, I can find where you suggest : but it 
is the living expression which sometimes lingers on the 
face after death that I would transfer. Bah! 'tis not so 
easy to put the two things together." 

" That's not the only disappointment which Franz has 
met with lately, in putting two things together," said 
Daloney. 

" Ah ! how is that ?" cried several. 

" Why, our friend here undertook to paint a cow and 
a cabbage on the same canvass, and both were so natural 
that he had to separate them." 

" Bravo ! bravo ! Daloney ;" and there was a general 
shout. 

" Daloney," said Vincent, gravely, " take my hat. I 
never will wear one again." 

"It comes in good time," whispered Clements, loud 
enough to be heard by the whole party, while Daloney 
gave him a glance to be silent. 

" No, no ; it is too good to be lost," said the other. 
"You must know, gentlemen, that yesterday our friend 
treated himself to a new hat ; price, nme francs, fifteen 
sous, and two centimes. Instead of coming home, like a 



The New Hat. — The Juggler. 115 

rational creature, to his dinner, he wanders into the rue 
JRivoli, dines, takes cafi, and rises to depart. His hat is 
missing ; he looks about quietly ; he is sure he placed it 
on the seat just behind him ; he looks again ; he discerns 
a dirty piece of paper with two lines scrawled on it ; he 
picks it up and reads as follows : 

" ' I have taken your new hat — but I leave you my 
eternal gratitude.' " 

Another general laugh succeeded Clements's narration. 

" You have interpolated," said Daloney ; " there was 
not one word about gratitude, else I had been satisfied ; 
there was nothing, in short, for my fine beaver, but an old 
shabby, torn specimen of a chapeaii^ not fit for the beasts 
of the field to wear." 

" They would look well in hats, to be sure," said 
Vincent ; " don't you think so, professor f turning to 
Wahlen. 

" I don't think, so soon after dinner. It disturbs my 
digestion." 

" How solemn you grow ! Pray, Franz, let's have the 
story about Wahlen's going to see the juggler." 

" Sa — \(i — you may tell it in welcome," said Wahlen, 
seriously, " if it will pleasure the company." 

" Oh, do let's have it, Franz," cried half-a-dozen. 

" I can give it in word. "VYahlen and I went to see a 
juggler who exhibited on the corner near the Odeon. We 



116 Romance of Student Life. 

had front seats. Iii the course of the performance he asks 
some person to step on the stage to assist in a piece of 
diablerie. He beckons Wahlen, who at that moment was 
thinking of any thing but what was going on. Wahlen 
starts at once. Among other thuigs, he asks Wahlen to 
hand him a napoleon. ' You see,' cries the juggler, ad- 
dressing the audience, ' this gentleman hands me a na^^o- 
leon. I put it in my pocket. Now let every one watch 
me narrowly. Siberah, Vibberah, Tintentuncleristhatch — 
Presto^ Voila ! The gentleman will tell you it is in Jiis 
pocket again,' appealing to Wahlen, who was at that 
moment deep in Fichte, or Jacob Boehme, and was 
startled mto saying, ' Yes,' before he knew he had said 
any thing. The juggler, with most triumphant air, now 
moved our friend to take his seat." 

" ' Please return me my napoleon,' " said Walilen. 

" ' Swindler !' exclaimed the juggler, in a low but reso- 
lute tone, ' have you not said publicly that you had it 
back again 1 If you make the slightest disturbance, I will 
have you turned out of the house.' " 

" And I made no disturbance," interrupted Wahlen, 
" for two reasons. First, I was properly punished for 
forgetting where I was, and what I was doing ; and, 
secondly, the juggler's unparalleled audacity deserved its 
reward." 

" Ah ! Jacob Wahlen," said Vincent, pleasantly, " you 



A Dangerous Suggestion. 117 

are a perfect mystery. You will become in due time a 
great German professor, and when you die — distant be the 
day — you will doubtless say, as your admired Hegel said, 
' I shall leave behind me but one man who understands my 
doctrines, and he does not understand them.' " 

" Perhaps," ejaculated Jacob Wahlen ; and having 
uttered this single word in reply, he was again deep in 
his philosophical revery. 

Here three or four of the company went across to the 
billiard-room. 

"Well, Franz, are we not to see the picture after 
all f said the Italian. 

" I tell you the truth, Signor Italiano, I camiot paint 
it. I have sketched and rubbed out, and sketched again 
— it's of no use." 

"Why don't you do what some of your craft have 
done before you f 

"What is thatf 

" Drive a trifling bargain with the old gentleman down 
stairs." 

"I won't do that. I believe in the devil, but don't 
think him a good artist — he colours too highly." 

"You must admit he drmvs well," said Vincent. 

" He's not the subject for a joke, at any rate," replied 
Franz. 

" Franz is low-spirited, I do believe." 



118 Romance of Student Life. 

"Supposing he is," said Clements, "it is as it should 
be. You know the saying — 'Melancholy is the charac- 
teristic of the German — wit of the Frenchman — gal- 
lantry of the Spaniard — love of the Italian — and, I am 
almost too modest to add — sense of the Englishman." 

"While a happy combination of all, you find only 
in the American — ahem," said Vincent, laughing. " But 
come, Franz, permit us to run up into your rooms 
and see what you have done." 

"You shall, ^\-ith pleasure, but the picture I cannot 
show you." 

Three or four of us accordingly followed our friend 
to the top of the house, where, of course, we had been 
often before. The appearance of the room was like that 
of every artist. One beheld the usual arrangement for 
light, the easel, stands for paints, &c., one or two un- 
finished pictures about the room, a few exquisite old 
paintings, and several pieces placed on the floor and 
turned to the wall. 

"Now, won't you change your determination and 
show us the picture, although it be unfinished'?" said 
Vincent. 

As he said this, he took hold of one of the larger 
pieces of canvass which was placed to face the wall, 
and, I imagine quite involuntarily, turned it around. 

An exclamation of horror fell from every one, sue- 



Scene with the Artist. 119 

ceedecl by a breathless silence as our eyes were fixed 
as if by enchantment on the painting. 

It was that of a young girl, *no more than seventeen, 
— having a classical face, with dark hair and eyes. In 
saying this I have said nothing. It was the expression 
which made the painting w^hat it was ; and yet there 
was no expression which one should recognise as human : 
and as for the eyes, they seemed, while you looked at 
them, to creep into you. 

While we were thus standing transfixed, Franz rushed 
forward, and seizing the picture turned it back agam, 
exclaiming, " For Heaven's sake, not that — not that !" 

" Ah, my dear fellow, you are not yourself this even- 
ing ; we will not tease you any more, — but pray tell us 
what moves you so ?" I said. 

"The fact is, the black dog has been sitting all day 
on my left shoulder, as my Scotch friend Macdonald 
used to say. I do not know why or wherefore ; and 
now you have turned around that picture, which has 
not been touched for a twelvemonth, I shall carry two 
black dogs mstead of one — perhaps it will help to bal- 
ance the load. At any rate, I will show you the unfin- 
ished thing you came to see, although I said I wouldn't. 
It will create a diversion at least." 

"No, Franz," said Clements, "you did not wish us 
to see it, and we will not look at it. But we have a 



120 Romance of Student Life. 

request to make — I think 1 can speak for the rest. We 
want to know if the picture we have just seen is drawn 
from lifef 

"I perceive," replied Franz, in a more cheerful tone, 
" that there is no escape for me. Whoever sees that 
picture once, never rests till every thing is told. For 
this reason, I always keep it with the face to the wall, 
and usually with something thrown over it; and, as I 
told you, I have not seen it before for a twelvemonth." 

"How could you ever have pamted it?" 

" Me P replied the artist, with a look of terror. 
"Mother of Heaven! I did not paint it! No, not I." 
And Franz von Herberg stared at us for a moment as 
if he had forgotten who we were. He quickly recovered, 
and said, hastily, "Sit do\\^i — sit down; you shall hear 
what I have to tell about that painting. But, in the first 
place, let me ask if any one of you wishes to examine it 
more closely ; if so, you are to do it before I commence, 
for when I have finished you must not ask to see it." 

No one expressed the least desire for another look : 
so fearful, I may say so terrible, was the effect of the 
first sight upon each one of us. Whereupon Franz took 
the picture, and, without changing the position, placed 
it in his closet, and threw a quantity of loose papers 
over the canvass. Then bolting the door, he drew his 
chair towards us, and commenced as follows: 



The Terrible Picture. 121 



CHAPTEE YI. 

THE TERRIBLE PICTURE. 

" Life is not a particular form of body, but the body 
is a particular form of life. The body relates to the soul 
as the word to the thought." So says old Jacobi. He 
did not address artists, but artists may learn a lesson 
from the saying. So may you. Messieurs students of 
medicine. For myself, I always carry it in my head. 

I don't know why I commence by quoting Friedrich 
Jacobi, when I am to tell you about Ernst von Wolzogen, 
except that it was a favourite saying of Ernst, and since — 
but no matter. 

Ernst and myself were born in the same village. 
He was but a year older than I, and we were placed 
at the same school together. From his childhood, Ernst 
manifested a strong love for his art. At that period 
I had but little idea of it, and I owe to my intimacy 
with him my taste for painting. With a handsome 
person, eyes black and piercing, with long, dark hair, 
and a magnificent brow, he certainly was the handsomest 



122 Romance of Student Life. 

fellow I ever saw. As an artist, he was bold, independent, 
full of original conception, no imitator, no copyist, no 
follower of any school, although he appreciated, as much 
as any one, the works of the great Masters, as they are 
called. From the first, he was remarkable for throwing 
the very living thing itself upon the canvass, in a manner 
which would astonish us all. There might be errors — 
there were errors, of one kind and another, — but, for 
all that, the thing itself stood before you. It mattered 
little whether it was a portrait, or a landscape, or a 
historical piece ; the effect was produced. When certain 
faults were pointed out to him, he w^ould say, "I know 
it — I perceive it — I will mend it by and by ; but first 
I must see that my picture is alive^ that it is real. 
' Life is not a particular form of body,' &c. ; the rest 
will come soon enough. We must have patience. It 
will come." 

Away from his easel, Ernst von Wolzogen was dreamy 
and superstitious. He was susceptible, too, but very 
shy, so that before he w^as one-and-twenty he had fallen 
in love and had his heart broken a dozen times with- 
out so much as speaking to his inamoratas. Once at 
his labours, however, all the unhappy mists which gath- 
ered about his brain were dispelled ; then, and then only, 
he was really himself. 

" Art, my dear Franz," ho would exclaim, " Art be- 



The Terrible Picture. 123 

longs to man only. In Art there is no divided empire :" 
and he would triumphantly recite those lines of Scliiller : 

In diligent toil thy master is the bee : 

In craft mechanical, the worm that creeps 

Through earth its dexterous way, may tutor thee ; 

In knowledge, (could'st thou fathom all its deeps,) 

All to the Seraph are already known : 

But thine, O Max, is Art — thine wholly and alone ! 

I have said he was superstitious. I can hardly ex- 
pect to be credited if I tell you what a slave he became 
to all sorts of signs and omens and prognostications. 
He believed, too, in presentiments and warnings. He 
credited ghost stories and tales of apparitions, and main- 
tained that, were it not for our gross organization, we 
should all enjoy the privilege of second sight, and I do 
not know what else. This had a very unhappy effect 
on him — an effect I was quite unable to counteract, al- 
though we were bosom companions and had been almost 
inseparable from the time we commenced our studies. 

"My friends," continued the artist passionately, after 
a moment's pause, "I loved Ernst. I loved him for 
these very weaknesses, which betokened a spirit far 
removed from this earth. Beyond every thing, I loved 
him for his appreciation of our artist-life, and for having 
roused my soul to a proper sense of it." 

As I had much more of the practical in my composi- 



124 Romance of Student Life. 

tion than my friend, it fell to me to look after the 
economy of our every-day life, while he endeavoured 
to carry me along with him in the rapid strides he was 
makmg in his art. We went over Europe in company. 
We dwelt together in Rome, in Florence, in Naples, in 
Vienna, in Munich, in Dresden, in Paris. We accom- 
panied each other to see paintings and statues, and, in 
short, every thing worthy of examination. 

We had spent some time at Dresden, and Ernst 
was becommg more and more subject to the unfortunate 
influences I have named. I proposed, therefore, as an 
agreeable change, that we should go to Paris, and take 
apartments in a pleasant part of the town, and thus try 
the effect of gay and lively scenes. There was at the 
same time a pamting in the Louvre — a landscape by 
Annibal Carracci, which had lately been transferred to 
that palace, which we both wanted to see. 

We came to Paris, and took rooms in the rue de la 
Paix. The first morning after our arrival, Ernst started 
out alone to t^ke a stroll through the gallery of the 
Louvre, in order, as he said, to report about the " land- 
scape." He promised to return in an hour or two ; but 
he did not come back till quite late in the afternoon. 
He was in a state of most cheerful excitement. He had 
not looked at the " landscape," but he had seen the most 
exquisite of all living pictures. 



The Terrible Picture. 125 

Ernst was always extravagant when describing his 
favourites, but he now exceeded any thing he ever before 
said in praise of female perfection. 

"Her namel" 

He did not know — he did not want to know. He only 
wanted to gaze on her, to be inspired by her, to worship 
her. 

" I suppose," I said, " I may be permitted to visit the 
gallery and steal a single glance at the fair one." 

" Indeed," replied Franz, " you must see her ; other- 
wise you have a right to think me beside myself" 

The next day we went to the gallery together. We 
passed nearly half way through the hall when Ernst 
touched my arm. 

Seated before the painting by Teniers, of the " Village 
Wedding," was a young girl, scarcely more than seven- 
teen. Her hat and shawl and gloves were laid aside, 
and she herself was so completely absorbed in transfer- 
ring the scene to her canvass, that she did not appear 
aware of any thing that was going on around her. 

She was mdeed a beautiful creature — perfect, it would 
seem, in form and feature, and apparently of great sim- 
plicity of character ; and no one could witness the enthu- 
siasm with which she pursued her employment without 
feeling a strong interest in her. A man-servant, in plain 
livery, stood behind her. This mdicated the enjoyment 



126 Romance of Student Life. 

of competent means, while a certain indescribable bearing 
evidenced that our young artiste was of gentle birth and 
breeding. 

" What shall I do ?" whispered Ernst. " I must turn 
copyist. Let us see; what is the next painting? 'The 
interior of a smoking tavern.' Pshaw, that will never 
do ; but on the other side 1 Ah ! ' Diogenes with his 
lantern looking for an honest man' — Rubens. I'll copy 
it. By Jove, I'll copy it. But is it honourable to take 
such an opportunity to be near this charming creatm'e % 
is it a fair advantage, tliink you V 

"Why not"?" I replied; "surely, we may admire all 
the portraits here, whether on canvass or not; and you 
have certamly a right to select your position." 

I wish you could have seen the work Ernst made of 
copying the piece he sat down to. Sometimes his Diogenes 
stood out with long, black tresses, and a delicate lithe 
form : agam the cynic would absolutely forget his lantern, 
and at another time omit to light it. Droll busmess was 
it for Ernst von Wolzogen, already the pride of the 
younger German artists, and the admiration of all who 
saw his productions. 

The young girl, meanwhile, was busily engaged. 
Acute as the sex are m recognising an admirer, I do 
not believe she had any thought that Ernst was other 
than an artist intent upon his copy, so single-hearted 



The Terrible Picture. 127 

was she in her own pursuits. But this could not last 
always. The "Village Wedding" was finished, and our 
heroine, after an absence of a week — during which time 
Ernst was inconsolable — reappeared at the Louvre, and, 
selecting a picture in another part of the hall, again 
commenced her labours. It was a landscape by Salvator 
Rosa, a painting calculated to call forth all her enthusiasm, 
and she began it with a zeal delightful to witness. 

"What am I to do now?" said Ernst, despairingly. 
" Be near her I must — I live but in her presence. What 
will become of me ?" 

" You should paint her ; then you will have her image 
to worship." 

" Ah ! would I had the right to do so — but I will not 
steal a portrait ; I should despise myself for ever after." 

" By the way, where is your Diogenes ?" 

"That is a most excellent joke. It is the only fuimy 
part of the affair. My Diogenes, indeed ! No one after 
this will accuse me of copying,'''' 

" But what have you done with it V 

" Done with it 1 Nothing : I gave it to Laurent to 
amuse his children." 

" Then I must get it from him. I will give him two 
pieces, much more suitable for children, for the one which 
he has, and preserve it for exhibition, when you are 
renowned." 



128 Romance of Student Life. 

"But that does me no good now. Let me reflect: I 
do not dare venture again to copy next her; she would 
certamly notice it." 

"She would not: and that is why I admire her." 

"Well, let us see, then, what I am to work at." 
We moved toward the spot where the girl was sitting. 

"The dead Christ." 

"1 will not place myself there," said Ernst, emphati- 
cally. " Why will artists spend their labour on death ? 
as if representation was their sole work. Believe me, it 
is a false idea. Life, life always. We have nothing to 
do with dead bodies." And he repeated his favourite 
quotation. 

"Look on the other side." 

"A sketch of Paradise." That will do. The living 
Saviour is there. This I will endeavour to transfer, and 
she shall inspire me." 

A short time after this conversation 1 went to Havre 
for the purpose of taking leave of one of my relations who 
was about embarking for America. 1 was absent four 
days. On my return, I met Ernst standing at the entrance 
of our house; he expressed much satisfaction on seeing 
me, and appeared, I think, more cheerful than usual. 

Here Eranz von Herberg stopped and mused for a 
moment. 

Messieurs^ (he continued,) what I am about to 



The Terrible Picture. 129 

relate was told me by Ernst himself. I will proceed 
and take up the story from the time of my leaving for 
Havre, until my return to Paris — a period, I have said, 
of four days. 

On the day of my departure, Ernst went as usual 
to the Louvre, and took his accustomed seat. He had 
really done something towards copying Tintoret's Paradise, 
and was certainly much improving it. I have it now 
in an unfinished state, and you shall see it. The girl, too, 
was busy with her pencil, while the very proximity made 
Ernst sufficiently happy. The next day Ernst resumed 
his seat at the usual time, but the young girl was not 
there. A half-hour passed and she did not come. Five 
minutes more — Ernst saw her walking along the gallery. 
His heart beat tumultuously. He could scarcely restrain 
his emotion. As the object of his devotion approached, 
he perceived that she was not accompanied by the man- 
servant who invariably attended her. She walked, how- 
ever, rapidly forward, cast an uncertain glance around, 
then placed a chair for herself, and arranged for her 
morning's occupation. Ernst observed, however, that her 
countenance bore a troubled look, and that her dress 
was in disorder, and some parts of it seemed to have been 
recently soiled and draggled with mud from the street. 
She continued to wear both hat and shawl. This of itself 
would scarcely have attracted Ernst's notice, were it not 
6* 



130 Romance of Student Life. 

for the strange appearance which the young girl exhibited. 
So much was he carried away by it, that, forgetting his 
previous resolution, he seized his pencil and commenced 
sketching her. 

While he was thus engaged, and utterly absorbed in 
the occupation, the subject of his sketch rose and stepped 
tow^ard him. 

Ernst coloured crimson, and, like a guilty wretch, un- 
consciously drew aside the paper on which he was 
drawing. 

" You wxre taking me V she said. 

"On my honour," cried Ernst, deeply moved, "on 
my honour, it was involuntary ;" and he tore the paper in 
pieces to prove his sincerity. 

" But do you desire to paint me f 

Ernst dared not raise his eyes. His first impulse was 
to fall at her feet and pour out his soul to her, for the 
tone in which she asked the question implied a willingness 
to grant the favour. 

" Do you desire to paint me f she repeated. 

" I would ask nothing more in this world, could I have 
permission." 

" It is granted. But you must come noto. I can give 
you but o?ie sitting." 

"I will attend Mademoiselle immediately." 

"Nay, I w^ill attend yow." 



The Terrible Picture. 131 

Ernst hesitated. 

'•'■Monsieur is losing time." 

Ernst von Wolzogen was taken by surprise. What 
could it mean'? Had he mistaken the character of his 
adored object ? No ; he could swear — No ! Was it 
possible? Had she discovered his secret devotion, and 
was she therefore willing to show him this favour from 
a sense of pity? As yet Ernst had not presumed to 
look at her, but sat spell-bound. 

" We lose time," she whispered softly. 

Ernst started up, and, bowing low, led the way out 
of the gallery. 

They descended the steps together, and stood on the 
pavement. Ernst beckoned for a carriage. His com- 
panion uttered a faint exclamation, too indistinct to be 
understood, and said hurriedly, "I will walk." 

They proceeded on in silence. Reaching the house, 
the young girl followed Ernst up the staircase and into 
his apartment. 

" Where," said she, " shall I sit f ' 

Ernst hastened to place his visiter; then he arranged 
the canvass, and deciding on what he thought the proper 
distance, he seized his brush. 

For the first time, he now looked steadily at his 
companion. 

She had thrown aside her hat and shawl. Her hair, 



132 Romance of Student Life. 

escaping from its fastening, lay in disorder over her 
shoulders. The face — the eyes — Ernst dropped his brush. 
He was terror-stricken. 

" We lose time," once more she repeated. 

Ernst again took up the brush ; he fixed his eyes boldly 
on the sitter ; he sat to work ; he grew more and more 
excited ; touch after touch was laid on ; no point was 
omitted. His labour was so intense that he felt his 
breath shortening and his pulse throbbing as he pro- 
ceeded. 

"The hour has expired. I must leave you," said the 
girl, and she rose to depart. 

"Stay — stay; in Heaven's name, stay — one instant. 
The eyes — the eyes — I must have another glance." 

She turned her head ; she fixed her gaze intently 
on Ernst for at least a minute ; then waving her hand 
to prevent his following her, she slowly walked away. 

Ernst continued at the picture the entire day, without 
the slightest intermission, and when evening came he 
laid it aside, finished. He went to bed, but he could 
not sleep. To use his own expression, those eyes were 
burnt into him. How would this adventure end ? Would 
she be at the Louvre the next day % Would he ever 
dare address her 1 Was his visiter really the same 
person he had beheld so often there. She was and she 
was not. What could it mean 1 



The Terrible Picture. 133 

Ernst passed the night, his brain teemmg with tumul- 
tuous thoughts, and his heart beating with violence all the 
time. Tlie morning dawned and found him feverish and 
excited. He rose and hastily dressed himself. His first 
impulse was to inspect the portrait. He went to his 
easel ; he looked on the canvass.- His teeth chattered ; 
his knees knocked together. 

At that instant, the woman who had charge of the 
room entered with his breakfast and the morning journal. 

Ernst swallowed a cup of coffee. Taking up the 
journal, the first paragraph which met his eyes was the 
following. 

"Melancholy Occurrence. — Yesterday, as Mademoiselle de 
Launy, only daughter of the Comte de Launy, was proceeding in her 
carriage to the Louvre, which she was in the habit of visiting daily, 
the horses took fright near the corner of the rue de Rixoli and the 
riie Castiglione. As the postillion endeavoured to curb them, one of 
the reins broke, and the horses becoming unmanageable ran furiously 
down the street, upsetting the carriage with great violence, by which 
Mademoiselle de Launy was thrown out upon the pavement and her 
skull fractured. She was taken up senseless, and immediately con- 
veyed to the residence of the Comte, where every means that medical 
skill could suggest were resorted to, but in vain. She continued 
insensible, and after the lapse of one hour, life was extinct." 

Ernst read no more, although the paragraph contained 
particulars of the beauty of the deceased, her accom- 
plishments, her virtues : he threw down the journal. Did 



134 Romance of Student Life. 

a shivering seize him 1 Was he maddened with excite-, 
ment, or struck with horror 1 Quite the contrary. He 
was perfectly calm and tranquil. His own convictions 
were sustained and carried out : he felt a serious pleasure 
that a sign had been made to him. 

The following day I returned. I found Ernst, as I 
have said, more cheerful than usual. Never before had 
I seen him so free from gloomy thoughts and fancies. 
To be sure, he was not gay or animated, but he never 
appeared more rational. His favourite author was Schiller. 
He felt a sympathy with any thing from his pen. As we 
sat together the morning m which he gave me the 
account I have now detailed, he repeated from Schiller's 
dying words, " ' Now is life so clear ! So much is made 
clear and plain!' Think you," he continued, laying his 
hand upon the table, " that this base matter is more 
enduring than spirit % I can now answer Schiller's 
question : 



-See 



The marble-tesselated floor; and there 
The very walls are glittering livingly 
In clearest hue and tint. The artist where ? 
Sure hut this instant he hath laid aside 
Pencil andr colours !' " 

I did not think it judicious to raise any discussion 
about a subject so delicate, although Ernst and I had 



The Terrible Picture. 135 

been for years in the habit of canvassing each other's 
opinions with great freedom. Besides, — the painting. 
It would have been idle, were I disposed, to assert, what 
I by no means felt sure of myself, that it was the work 
of a heated and overwrought brain; that, distracted by 
disappointment in not meeting the object of his passionate 
adoration, his feverish fancy had supplied the rest. I 
neither affirmed nor denied what Ernst would say, but 
endeavoured to minister as much as I could to his pre- 
vailing cheerfulness. We continued to take our walks 
together; we discussed subjects of art as before; but 
my friend never took up his unfinished pictures ; he never 
again entered the Louvre ! 

" Franz, I shall never paint any more," he said to me 
as I was urging him to resume his labours. " I cannot," 
he continued, " explain to you how I feel. My devotion 
for Art is not lessened, nay, it is stronger in my heart 
than ever. I am neither moonstruck nor melancholy. 
What has happened to me is natural. But the flesh 
is weak. I cannot sit again at the easel after " 

He did not finish the sentence : he knew I understood 
him. 

Ernst proceeded : " I must change my life. I must 
court an active life. I will busy myself with the prac- 
tical " 

" And thy artist-M^Q, O Ernst !" 



136 Romance of Student Life. 

" Shall still live, Franz, in my soul : it shall show 
itself in my deeds : they shall be humane, truthful, 
energetic, and so I will create a new picture. Behold 
my faith : 

* Six thousand years has death reigned tranquilly ! 
Nor one corpse come to whisper those who die 
What after death requites us!' 

No longer am I without assurance. This is why I am 
cheerful, hopeful ; I believe in the ' requiter^ " 

I did not attempt to dissuade him. I could not ; for 
I was myself convinced that Ernst was right in his 
decision. 

His plans were not settled, but he determined first to 
devote a few months to travel and recreation. 

The time had come when I was to lose my early friend 
and companion. We parted with an understanding that 
we should meet during the season in our native village. 

Ernst decided to pass through Switzerland. It was as 
yet too early to cross the higher passes of the Alps with 
safety. But Ernst was always enthusiastic among such 
scenes, and loved the excitement attending them. 

You doubtless remember a published account, about 
eighteen months ago, of a company of five persons who, 
attempting to cross by the pass of the St. Gothard, were 
overtaken by a tourmente near the fatal Buco del Calan- 



The Terrible Picture. 137 

chetti, and buried under the snow. Ernst von Wolzogen 
was one of the party, and perished, beneath the ava- 
lanche. ......... 

There was a long pause after Von Herb erg had con- 
cluded. It was broken by Vincent. 

" Do you know," he said, " that story makes me feel 
deucedly unsettled? You Germans are a fearful set of 
fellows. What is the use of harrowing up one's fancies 
in this way 1 Franz, my dear boy, I mean no offence ; 
with you it's all very natural, but it's too hard work for 
me; besides, my old aunt would say that it isn't good 
Bible doctrine. , Gentlemen, you must all adjourn to my 
room. Franz, you shall lodge with me to-night — I have 
two beds, you know. I am afraid to leave you alone 
after such a narration. Lock that closet-door and throw 
away the key — g-h-r-r-r-r ! It makes me shiver to thmk 
of it. Allons, Messieurs, I have some champagne wine 
and a box of real Habanas just smuggled, and, what is 
more, I propose to tell you a story which I heard but 
yesterday, and which, I hope, will help us to forget this 
one, so that we may sleep in peace without those eyes — 
g-h-r-r-r-r.! Allans — allonsy 

Not one of the party had stirred while Vincent was 
making his speech. But the spell was now broken, and, 
accompanied by Franz, they all descended to Vincent's 



138 Romance of Student Life. 

room, making mimerous lively demonstrations on the 
way. The corks flew from the champagne; pipes, meer. 
schaums and segars were lighted, and after a reasonable 
period spent in discussing their merits, Vincent was called 
on for the story. 



Vincent tells his Story. 139 



CHAPTER YII. 

VINCENT TELLS HIS STORY. 

" You all know Paul Ferval, the water-carrier ?" 

" Oh, certainly, we all know Paul — if that's any assist- 
ance to you." 

" Messieurs, I beg you not to be impertinent ; au con- 
traire, pray be docile, and tell me when any of you saw 
Paul last." 

After considerable serious reflection, none of the com- 
pany remembered to have seen him for several weeks. 
It was strange ; they had not thought of it before. What 
had become of him? 

" That is what I am about to tell you. The old woman 
who rents the atelier where Paul lodged, just around the 
corner, in the rue Neuve St. Medard, has given me the 
whole story. It is a capital one. Our worthy Doctor 
Lanote is mixed up with it, and you will say the affair is 
very characteristic of him. But, artist-like," (bowing to 
Franz,) " I will begin at the begimiing. Messieurs, please 
to observe silence while I give you the story of 



140 EoMANCE OF Student Life. 

In a small village, a few miles from Macon, on the 
road to Lyons, lived — and, I trust, still lives — the widow 
Nerval. She had been the wife of a weaver, who, several 
years before the commencement of my history, selected 
the little village for his home, hired a small tenement, 
and set up his loom. It was whispered about that Ferval 
had, as the phrase is, seen better days. Nothing positive 
ever transpired, however, to confirm this notion. The 
weaver and his wife were both industrious — went very 
little among their neighbours; but, at the same time, 
were held m good esteem as peaceable and quiet people. 
They had but one child — a mere lad — when Ferval first 
came to the village, and who was greatly indulged both 
by father and mother. Young Paul Ferval grew up to 
be one of the finest fellows in the whole county. His 
voice was clear and ringing, his eye bright, his form 
manly, and his step full of activity. He sang a good 
song, he could play on half-a-dozen instruments, he knew 
how to cast an account and to write, and even had some 
taste for reading ! But the worst of it was, he was taught 
nothing by which he might, m due time, earn an honest 
livelihood. He had not been put to any trade. He could 
not even weave ; which was strange enough, as he canie 
up under the very sound of the shuttles. In short, he never 



The Water-carrier. 141 

had done what one should call a day's work in his life. A 
very bad example did Paul Ferval unconsciously set to 
the youths of the village — an example which would doubt- 
less have been gladly followed, had their fathers been like 
the father of Paul. 

On several occasions, certain of the more substantial 
villagers ventured to remonstrate with the elder Ferval 
on the course he w^as pursumg wdth his son, and hinted 
that it would be much better for him to bring up the boy 
to some honest calling, than to permit him to be rovuig 
about the country, singing songs and playing the flute or 
violin. These suggestions were to little purpose. Ferval 
would say to his advisers : " Has my boy been guilty 
of any thing culpable, or any thing dishonourable ? Does 
he frequent the wine-house ? Does he keep bad com- 
pany 1 Is he from home at unseasonable hours 1" No 
one could assert this ; and the conference w^ould be closed 
by a shrug of the shoulder and a shake of the head, and 
a hmt that the example Paul set to his companions, who 
were taught to labour for their living, was a very bad 
one, nevertheless. Ferval's father would make no reply, 
and so it would end. The fact is, Ferval's neighbours 
were right, and he was ^vi'ong. But Paul was an only 
child, a darlmg child, — and a right good child he was, 
dutiful and affectionate, and withal a manly fellow, 
— so that the father, who detested his own trade, in 



142 Romance of Student Life. 

which, however, he was very skilful, and, being able 
to support his small family without difficulty, could not 
bear to set his bright, ardent, vivacious boy down to the 
back-breaking machine at which he himself toiled so 
faithfully. 

But the evil day came at last. Ferval was taken 
mortally ill, and died. He left scarcely more than enough 
to provide for a decent burial, and his widow had to 
depend entirely on her daily labour for support. It was 
now that Paul lamented bitterly that a different course 
had not been pursued with him. He looked with feelings 
of envy on the young fellows of his own age who were 
already able to earn a decent support. He blamed him- 
self for his improvidence. He knew not what to do, 
unless to become a labourer in the fields. Paul had 
another trouble, and it was a serious one. — He was in 
love ! Fanchette Ci-osier was the prettiest maiden in 
the whole department. I won't attemjDt to describe her 
to you, gentlemen, because description is not my forte ; 
besides, she has not been particularly described to me, 
and I forbear to draw on my imagination, but leave you 
to draw on yours. All I know is, she was confessedly 
vnthout a rival the country round. Her father, Nicolas 
Ci'osier, was a stout-built, sturdy-looking old fellow, with 
a visage sour enough to frighten any youth who should 
have the audacity to offer himself as suitor for his daughter. 



The Water-carrier. 143 

He had from a very small begimiing got to be the pro- 
prietaire of a large farm, and now enjoyed himself in 
cultivating his own land. The girl was his only child, 
and, although Nicolas was at times rather severe with 
his daughter, his heart was really bound up in his little 
Fanchette, as he called her. 

Nicolas Crosier was one of the persons who used to 
take the liberty of remonstrating with the weaver Ferval 
about the young Paul. After all, there was something 
beyond the mere desire of rendermg Paul a service^and 
preserving the place from the evils of his example, that 
influenced many of those who were so ready with their 
advice for Paul's benefit. If the truth must be told, all 
the girls of the village were in love with him, and I dare 
not assert the pretty Fanchette was an exception — I will 
be frank for once, and say she was not an exception. 
No wonder, then, that the worthy fathers trembled at 
the thought of having such an idle fellow stealing in on 
them, and running off with the flower of their flock. 

As for Paul, as I have said, he had his own troubles 
in this respect. He was in love — in love with Fanchette 
Crosier, and of course was in despair. In the first 
place, it was not possible Fanchette could ever fancy 
him — no, not possible. Then old Nicolas Crosier ! To 
be sure, Paul was always so civil, so respectful, so 
courteous, that the old fellow could not quarrel with 



144 Romance of Student Life. 

him. Paul had done nothing, had said nothing, had made 
no demonstration which approximated toward makmg love 
to Fanchette. But Nicolas Crosier was too knowing to 
be deceived. He kept a strict watch both on Fanchette 
and Paul, resolving at the proper time to give a death- 
blow to any hopes the latter might entertain in that 
quarter. I don't mean to say that the old fellow had 
any special objection to the youth beyond what he 
urged to his father — and which certainly was very 
propbr — but he had made up his mmd, after the death 
of the elder Ferval, to put a stop to Paul's coming to the 
house as soon as he decently could do so. It will be 
seen that Paul himself brought on the crisis. He could 
endure the suspense no longer. So one morning he goes 
to the house of Nicolas Crosier, which was situated a 
little out of the village, determmed to seek an interview 
with the old man, and have his destiny settled. 

Nicolas was seated on the little portico which skirted 
the front of his house, and which overlooked his garden and 
his meadow. He read Paul's errand in his face, and was 
glad enough that the wished-for opportunity had come. 
He saluted the young man civilly, and bade him take a 
seat. The latter was too much agitated to ^t down, but 
told his errand at once. 

"You want to marry Fanchette f 

" With your permission," said Paul, modestly. 



The Water-carrier. 145 

*' What would you do with her ?" asked Nicolas, gruffly. 

Paul hesitated : he was not taken by surprise, for he 
knew the question would be put to him ; but now that it 
was j)ut, he felt the force of it more than when he was 
considering it by himself. 

" W^liat would you do with her, eh V' 

" I would work from morning to night, and she should 
want for nothing," said Paul, resolutely. 

" These are fine words, and you are doubtless a very 
fine fellow," said Nicolas, ironically ; " but tell me, Paul 
Ferval, are you really such an imbecile as to suppose me 
willing to throw away Fanchette on a lazy, idle vagabond 
— one who never earned the salt in his soup, and now 
that his father is dead, is seeking to be supported by a 
father-in-law." 

Paul swallowed the hard words with difficulty; the 
insinuation of seeking a support cut him to the quick ; at 
the same time he could not deny but that it would be very 
natural for any one to view his conduct in just that light. 

After a moment's hesitation, he "replied, " I do not 
wonder you have these suspicions, but you wrong me. 
I do not want Fanchette until I prove to you I am able 
to support her." 

" Cela est fort beau ; mais a quoi diable cela revient-il ?'''* 
asked old Nicolas, sneermgly. " What's that to the pur- 
pose 1 — why do you come to me now .^" 



146 Romance of Student Life. 

" Because," said Paul, with a despairing energy, " if I 
had from you the slightest assurance that Fanchette might 
one day be mine, it would give me courage to accomplish 
every thing, and this. Monsieur Crosier, is why I come now." 

There was something in Paul's resolute tone which 
touched a similar chord m the old man. Besides, Paul 
sought no present advantage : he was content to put off 
the day : there was one point gained. Nicolas Crosier 
considered a while, and then he said — " Paul, your father 
was a worthy, industrious man ; your mother is a most 
excellent woman ; you, at present, are a miserable, worth- 
less do-nothing. You say you are resolved to turn about, 
go to work, and make something of yourself: I don't 
believe you ever wall ; but I am not the one to discourage 
a man who wants to do better. Fanchette is but six- 
teen. She sha'n't marry any body with my consent these 
three years. Now, look you, if you can come to me in 
three years, and say — ' Nicolas Crosier, I have earned 
money to buy some land' (I don't care how little) ' and 
I have saved money to build a cottage,' (let it be ever so 
small,) ' and I want Fanchette,' — sacre bleu ! you shall have 
Fanchette — that is, if the girl is fool enough to say she 
likes you, which I very much doubt; and here is my 
hand on it." 

Paul seized the offered hand, and gave it such a grasp 
that it brought the tears into old Crosier's eyes. 



The Water-carrier. 147 

" I don't ask for better terms — I have no right to ask 
for better. Ten thousand thousand thanks." 

" Brisons la-dessus,''^ said the old man, hastily ; " go in 
if you like and see my wife, perhaps Fanchette is with 
her ; then be oif with yourself. No more love-making — 
do you understand ? — for three years." 

It is very doubtful if Paul heard the last part of the 
sentence, as he was already in the house, seated between 
Fanchette and her mother. He told the latter (with 
whom, by the way, his handsome address and pleasing 
manners had made him a flivourite) the result of the late 
interview, and improved the short time that was allowed 
him, I have no doubt, to the best advantage. A three 
years' banishment is certainly a formidable obstacle even 
for " true love :" but Fanchette had no fears ; her mother 
had no fears ; so, with many words of encouragement, 
Paul took his leave. Old Nicolas Crosier nodded care- 
lessly to him as he passed out ; and it was not till Paul 
had entered his mother's cottage that his heart sank within 
him at what he was to imdertake. But his resolution 
was fixed. He briefly informed his mother what had 
occurred, and begged her to grant him her blessing, and 
let him set out the next morning to seek his fortunes. It 
was a grievous struggle for the poor woman, but her son's 
reasoning finally prevailed, and the next day Paul departed 
on foot from his native village. A knapsack swung over 



148 Romance of Student Life. 

his shoulders contained liis clothing, and the sum of twenty- 
six francs, which the widow had carefully saved for some 
unforeseen emergency, was safely deposited in his pocket. 
It was a long time before Paul consented to take the 
money, for the sneers of old Nicolas Crosier were still 
tmgling in his ears ; his mother, however, who knew how- 
much he might stand in need of it, forced the silver into 
his hand, and, throwing her arms around his neck, she 
embraced him tenderly and commended him to the keep- 
ing of the Holy Virgin and all the Saints. Paul sobbed 
with grief, in spite of himself, as he trudged slowly away. 
But, as he got out into the open country, the fresh fields 
and the pleasant prospect inspired him, while the thought 
of the stake for w^hich he was venturing soon restored all 
his natural courage and determination. 

His journey contamed no adventures. He was kindly 
entertained by the inhabitants as he passed along, all of 
whom were delighted Avith Paul's open, easy manner, 
and pleasant, cheerful countenance. 

It was about noon that " our adventurer found himself, 
after some days' travel, within sight of Paris, His purse 
still bore the weight of his twenty-six francs, for so hos- 
pitably had Paul been treated upon the road that he 
found no occasion to lighten it. 

His heart beat with excitement as he beheld the gay 
city where all his hopes were centred. He was very 



The Water-carrier. 149 

sanguine. If he had been received as a brother by the 
peasants by the wayside — some of whom were nearly 
as poor as himself — what good fortune must now attend 
himl what might he not expect from the rich and the 
powerful^ Poor Paul had yet to learn the lesson that 
kindnesses and charities spring from the humble and the 
lowly, not from the opulent and the great. 

As he advanced into the city, he reached the Italian 
Boulevards. They were thronged, as usual, with a glitter- 
ing crowd, intent on pleasure and pastime. Paul gazed 
wildly around : the stream swept by him in a never-end- 
ing current. He put a civil question to one of the passers- 
by ; it was answered by a shrug and a stare. Gay sights 
filled his eyes, lively voices were sounding in his ears, 
brilliant equipages swept rapidly along, and the shops and 
cafes and saloons bewildered him with their dazzling glare. 

Paul's heart sank within him. He thought of his 
native village, of his mother's cottage, and his courage 
failed him. The real state of things flashed, by a kind 
of prescience, on his mind. Where was he to go % 
what was he to do 1 He felt that he had no power 
to interrupt the passing pageant with the story of his 
wants or of his aspirations, so he stood oppressed and 
dejected, till, finding himself continually jostled by the 
crowd, he proceeded do\vn the Boulevards in the direction 
of the river. 



150 Romance of Student Life. 

It was doubtless by that same instinct which leads 
the miserable to seek the companionship of the distressed, 
that Paul found himself, as the day began to wane, on 
this side of the Seine, and in the dii'ty quarter of the 
rue Neuve St. Medard. He was weary, hungry, and dis- 
pirited. The purse containing his twenty-six francs was 
still safe in his pocket; but he dreaded to mxike the 
first inroad upon it. 

As he stood leaning against the doorway of one of the 
ponderous buildings, irresolute what course to take, a little, 
fat old woman, fifty or sixty years old, with a large wool 
mattrass on her head, turned into the court-yard. She 
did not see Paul, who at that moment had advanced a 
step directly in her patL He, poor fellow, was too much 
taken up with his own situation to notice her. At the 
moment of contact Paul made an awkward endeavour to 
avoid the collision. It resulted in making matters worse. 
Tlie mattrass was not only thrown do\vn, but the little, 
fat old woman unfortunately lost her balance, and rolled 
into the mud. 

Paul hastened to her assistance, but was greeted by 
a storm of abuse for his carelessness in intercepting 
the passage-way. They were the first words which had 
been addressed to him since he placed his foot within 
the city, and it was music to his ear to hear them. 
He raised the old woman in spite of her clamour, took 



The Water-carrier. 151 

up the mattrass with alacrity, and insisted on carrying 
it to the top of the house, where was situated the small 
atelier in which she performed her labours of cardeuse. 

By the time Paul had mounted au sixieme, the WTath 
of " Old Mannette," the little fat woman, — we may as 
well call her by name, at least, the only one by which 
she is known, — was very considerably abated ; and when, 
having been directed into what room to go, Paul put 
down the mattrass and again asked pardon for his awk- 
wardness, Old Mannette's feelings took quite the con- 
trary turn, and she apologized with much volubility for 
her own rudeness. The old and ill-formed are especially 
gratified by the attentions of the young and handsome. 
It certainly did not diminish the force of her protesta- 
tions when she saw that it was a fine, manly- looking 
fellow who was showing her so much civility. 

The result of this adventure was very satisfactory, all 
things considered. The sight of Paul's knapsack naturally 
called forth an inquiry from the old woman, and it ended 
in Paul's telling her his whole story. Just think of it ! 
Paul Ferval making a confidante of Mannette, the old 
cardeuse ! A heavy fallmg off from the bright anticipa- 
tions of the morning. For all that, Paul was happy 
enough to find an^^ body to whom he could talk, and 
of whom he might ask questions. 

Old Mannette, after all, was not the worst adviser 



152 Romance of Student Life. 

Paul could have had. She was really a kind-hearted, 
sensible creature, who understood the ways of the towai, 
having been left at an early age to take care of herself. 
Of course, she had never married ; for nobody would 
think of such a dwarfish, ill-formed thing for a wife. She 
had now lived many years in that house, and pursued 
her vocation unremittingly from day to day. Such was 
the person who, before she was aware of it, had taken a 
strong interest in Paul's fortunes. And Paul — he was 
no longer the lonely, miserable, isolated wretch, sur- 
rounded by the gay throng of the Boulevard. Seated on 
a pile of mattrasses in the little dark atelier of Old 
Mannette, he was as light-hearted and happy as was 
possible. 

" I tell you what you shall do, Master Paul : I have 
a little room which joins this, not much larger than a 
closet, I admit, but it will answer until you can afford some- 
thing better. You shall have as many mattrasses as you 
like, and I can manage to make up the bed for you 
from my own store. Au reste^ you shall breakfast with 
me, paying only your share, and for dinner I have al- 
ways an abundance of soup and excellent bouilli. But 
that, after all, is nothing," continued the now enthusiastic 
old woman. "What can be thought of for youf And 
she put a multitude of questions to Paul as to the 
extent of his capacities. 



The Water-carrier. 153 

The poor fellow made but a sorry figure while going 
through this catechism. 

"I have it at last," cried Old Mannette with delight; 
" you shall become a ivater-carricr. The old carrier left 
the ' route' only yesterday ; to be sure, he could not 
make a living out of it, but then he has not half your 
activity, I am sure he has not. To-morrow you shall 
begin : you must purchase your cans early in the morn- 
ing, and I will go ^vith you and show you the way." 

Old Mannette now went into a full explanation of the 
labours and duties of a water-carrier; and, although she 
admitted he would have a very unpromising route, still 
she was persuaded Paul could make something out of it. 

Our hero went to bed with a light heart. Doubtless, 
the thought which is so well expressed in our English 
lines came into his head: 

" 'Tis the poor man alone, 
When he hears the poor moan, 
A mite of his morsel will give. 

"Well-a-day." 

The next morning Paul rose bright and early. Not 
now with reluctance was his purse drawn forth. He 
was paying money for the implements of his trade, 
and he counted it out cheerfully. Soon he became 
familiar with the mysteries of his profession, and settled 
into its routine. It tvas hard, even for Paul, to make 



154 Romance of Student Life. 

a sous over and above his daily expenses. Old Man- 
nette had not done justice to the former water-carrier. 
He had abandoned the route after a very faithful trial. 
But Paul was not to be discouraged. He did gain a 
little. By degrees he extended his trips as he gained 
greater facility in serving ; he also made inquiries about 
the business in the other parts of the town, and dis- 
covered that to be in a position to lay by any money, 
he should be possessed of a horse and cart. 

" What shall I do," he said to Old Mannette, " for a 
horse and cart? I must have a horse and cart. I am 
so familiar with the work now, that I could soon change 
my situation with a horse and cart." 

" Take time, Paul, take time," Old Mannette replied ; 
"do not fret too much about it. I know a wheelwright 
near by, who will, I am sure, let. you have a second-hand 
cart on credit, if you can only buy the horse." 

Paul set to with more zeal than ever, and by degrees 
his purse grew a little. heavier, and his heart proportion- 
ably light. 

The weather at length began to be cheerless and 
forbidding. The winter, which is always disagreeable 
in Paris, was unusually severe, and Paul overtasked him- 
self in performing what were his accustomed summer 
duties. In one very severe storm Paul was more than 
usually exposed, and he continued to labour till a late 



The Water-carrier. 155 

hour. He came home shivering, and, without taking 
proper pams to dry himself, he went to bed. He awoke 
in the middle of the night with a burning fever. He 
tossed and tumbled about till morning, and then endeav- 
oured to rise. His limbs refused to sustain him, and 
he sank almost fainting on his bed. After a few mo- 
ments he again attempted to raise himself, but the room 
seemed to whirl round, and he grew so giddy that he 
was forced once more to throw himself dowai. Shortly 
after. Old Mannette, having prepared breakfast, knocked 
at his room, surprised that Paul was not already stir- 
ring. She was answered by a voice so uncertain in its 
character that she pushed open the door. She hastened 
to his bedside, and, seeing the poor fellow so ill, could 
not help expressing her lamentations. Paul had never 
been indisposed a day in his life before, and had not the 
slightest idea of a prolonged sickness. Much, therefore^ 
as he was suffering, he assured the kind-hearted old woman 
that he should be quite well in a few hours, and asked 
her to see one of the ouvriers below, and arrange for 
the performance of that day's labour. Old Mannette was 
familiar with disease; for at one time she had been a 
nurse : her experienced eye detected the presence of a 
violent fever, and she was satisfied that it would confuie 
Paul many days to his bed. She did not discourage him, 
however, but endeavoured to persuade him to remove to 



15t> Romance of Student Life. 

her own room, which could boast of the luxury of a fire- 
place, although it is more than probable it had never 
been used. Paul would not consent to change, and Old 
Mamiette, after preparing a ptisan and placing it near 
him, and recommending him to keep very quiet, went 
out to attend to her occupations. When she returned, 
she found Paul much worse. Indeed, Paul himself 
began to think something serious was fastened on him. 
The very loss of time was to him a mortal blow. Six 
months had elapsed, and he had certainly gained very 
little toward the consummation of his plans. Here was 
a "stay" which Paul had never calculated on — had 
never dreamed of. Old Mannette read his thoughts, and 
hastened to comfort him. First, she insisted on his 
removing into the next room ; then she purchased 
fagots and made a fire, without letting Paul know it 
was not her daily custom to do so. What with the 
excitement of the change, and of the pleasant blaze 
upon the hearth, her patient fancied himself much 
better, while Old Mannette had not the heart to tell 
him she knew he was hourly growing worse. 

He passed a miserable night, so that Old Mannette 
was much alarmed at his appearance the following morn- 
ing. However, she said but little to Paul, who, now 
almost despairing, lay, with throbbing pulse and suffused 
eyes, in a state bordering on entire apathy. Immediately 



The Water-carrier. 157 

after her breakfast she hurried away to "clear Dr. La- 
note," Old Mannette's favourite among the medical faculty. 
You all know the Doctor, his oddities, his eccentricities, 
his abrupt manner, and his kind heart. If the worthy 
man stood so high in Mannette's critical estimation, the 
latter was no less esteemed with him. She had nursed 
under the Doctor, first and last, at least twenty years, 
and, as he always bore witness, she had never swerved 
from his orders or volunteered any thing out of place. 
A reliable nurse is a valuable assistant to the physician, 
and whenever Dr. Lanote was called to a patient and 
found Mannette in charge, he did not hesitate to express 
a peculiar satisfaction. 

To Dr. Lanote Old Mannette hurried. She had to 
cross the river, and take a long walk on the other side 
of the Seine, but she got to his house before he had 
left, and waited for her turn to see him. 

" Ah, Mannette, is it you 1 Sit down. You have had 
a long walk this morning. I hope you have come to 
say you are going to try your hand as nurse again ? 
Nowadays it's a novelty to find a nurse that keeps to 
her duty. Do you remember how we carried through 
Monsieur Gaudeletf 

" Can I ever forget it 1" said the old woman with 
vivacity ; " and how the rich merchant offered you his 
purse, and you bade him hand it to Mannette, saying that 



158 Romance of Student Life. 

the nurse had done more than yourself towards his re- 
covery. It was a proud day for me ; and that was the 
reason I could not receive the money. I felt more than 
paid by what you said of me, and it seemed as if I 
should be robbed of that reward had I taken it." 

" Ah, Mannette, you are an old fool like myself. But 
I must despatch these patients. What is to be done for 
you V 

Although Dr. Lanote was really in a hurry that morn- 
ing, he sat patiently and heard Mannette tell the whole 
story of Paul Ferval from beginning to end. He be- 
trayed no particular mterest m the narration, and when 
it was concluded he said, " Very well, Mannette. Now 
go and attend to your mattrasses, I will give the 
youngster a call ;" and the old woman went off as well 
contented as if she had received every assurance m the 
world in relation to her protege. 

It was about one o'clock in the afternoon. With 
Paul the hours had passed heavily. From a continual 
restlessness he gradually sunk into a stupor, against which 
he vainly endeavoured to struggle. He was partially 
roused from it by a friendly shake of the shoulder, while 
an abrupt but not harsh voice exclaimed, "Well, what 
are you doing here V 

Paul opened liis eyes and saw standmg over him a 
little, inquisitive-looking, bright-eyed old fellow, who 



The Water-carrier. 159 

was regarding him with an expression of curiosity and 
interest. 

" Well, mon enfant^ what do you think of me ?" 

As Paul knew nothing of Old Mamiette's expedition, 
he had not the slightest idea that the visit was from a 
physician. He said nothing, but stared wildly at the 
intruder. 

" What is the matter with you T said Dr. Lanote. 

" I don't know," replied Paul. 

Dr. Lanote proceeded to examine his symptoms very 
carefully. * 

" Are you a medical man T inquired Paul. 

« Yes." 

" I don't want one." 

"Why not?" 

"I am better without." 

" You speak more truth than you imagine, my poor 
fellow," muttered Dr. Lanote to himself. 

" Besides," continued Paul, " I have no means of pay- 
ing for visits." 

" That is not true," said the doctor, bluntly. " You 
have a bag containing five-franc pieces some where about 
the room." 

"Wretch!" cried Paul, in an excited tone, "would 
you rob mef 

"No," said the doctor, dryly, evidently not relishing 



160 Romance of Student Life. 

being mistaken for a voleur. " I would cure you, that's 
all — and to do that, I must rouse you; and I think 
1 have partially succeeded. Where's Mannettef 

"I cannot tell," said Paul, who began to think he 
was in a dream. 

At that moment the old woman's step was heard on 
the staircase, and the next, she made her appearance in 
the room. Dr. Lanote took her aside. 

" Over-exertion of body and mind," — he whispered, — 
" grief — care — disappointment — cerebral — typhus. He 
must be nursed — you understand." 

He continued his suggestions much in the same 
manner, dropping a word here and there, to represent 
a whole sentence, w^hich was doubtless coherent enough 
in his mind, and which Old Mannette seemed to under- 
stand perfectly. 

" I will be here in the morning," said Dr. Lanote ; 
then turning to Paul, he bade him take courage, and 
took his leave. 

" Is it possible that there are no remedies for such 
a disease?" said Dr. Lanote to himself as he stepped 
slowly down the staircase. " I am convinced that 
neither the antiphlogistic, nor the stimulant, nor the 
tonic, nor the derivative, method of treatment is of any 
avail. I dare not follow any of them. To what, then, 
am I reduced ? To the Expectant ! Just what that 



The Water-carrier. 161 

sensible American* declared after a practice of nearly 
halfa-century, to wit, 'that we had better leave the 
disease to cure itself, as remedies, especially powerful 
ones, are more likely to do harm than good.' Well, 
well, the boy has a stout frame, and by carefully watch- 
ing — but his courage is gone — his courage is gone — 
there's the rub;" and Dr. Lanote got into his carriage 
and drove away. • 

The Doctor called daily, sometimes twice a day, while 
the fever gradually crept through Paul's system, and ap- 
proached the crisis. He had taken no medicine. Dr. 
Lanote would prescribe nothing, except, perhaps, a little 
barley-water, weak lemonade, or something of the sort. 

Notwithstanding Old Mamiette was as economical as 
she could be, it was necessary to make some trifling 
purchases which she had no means of supplying. Paul 
had at first resolutely resisted any encroachments on his 
treasure. One day Dr. Lanote came in and recom- 
mended her to procure two or three little articles which 
were really necessary for his comfort. Old Mannette 
looked mournfully at Paul. "You hear," she said, 
" what the good Doctor advises f 

* Dr. Lanote doubtless referred to Dr. Nathan Smith, unques- 
tionably the most eminent physician this country has ever furnished, 
and who adopted and introduced a new method of treatment in typhus 
fever. 



162 Romance of Student Life. 

"I must do without them," said he, in as decided a 
tone as his weak voice would permit. 

" A miser, and so young !" cried Dr. Lanote a little 
sharply. 

"I hoarded my money to buy a horse and cart," 
answered Paul, bitterly. 

A compression of the lips and a slight tremulous 
movement of the muscles of the; mouth could be per- 
ceived ; but the Doctor manifested no other sign that he 
had heard a word that Paul was saying. 

As for Paul, he now submitted to his fate, because 
he could no longer resist it. His hopes were fled, every 
one of them, and he really did not care what became 
of him. 

By degrees his purse grew lighter and lighter, for 
Dr. Lanote would have his own way, and Paul ceased 
to give a thought on the subject. 

The Doctor contmued unremitting in his visits, and 
kept the strictest watch of every symptom, so that he 
might check at once any of those intercurrent affections 
which are so apt to appear in the disease, should any 
be manifest. 

The fever at last had spent its force, and the crisis 
approached. The principal danger was to be appre- 
hended from Paul's utter despondency. I should not say 
despondency. He had reached a lower point, for he 



The Water-carrier. 163 

had ceased to despond. If he had any wish at all, it 
was that he might escape from the world. Poor Paul ! 

It was near evening. Paul had been sick fourteen days, 
and the crisis of the fever had come. Dr. Lanote stood 
by our hero's bedside with a perplexed aspect. At last 
he said to him, '•'■ Mon enfant^ you must bestir your- 
self — pass but a good night, and to-morrow you will be 
better." 

" I do not want to be better," said Paul, faintly — " I 
want to go ; it will be soon, I hope." 

" Ah, very well," said the Doctor, " if I can be of 
any service to you, command me. I will see to any thing 
you intrust to me." 

Paul made no reply, but whispered, in a low tone, 
" Tanchette." 

" Fanchette 1" cried Dr. Lanote. " What Fanchette % 
Is it the Fanchette who is soon to be married to Jean 
Grilliet." 

Paul opened his eyes very wide, notwithstanding his 
weak state : an electric shock had been administered. 

" W^hat do you say f he asked with considerable 
energy. 

" I spoke of Fanchette Crosier, the lass Jean Grilliet 
is about to marry, and a nice fellow he is too. I 
only hope the girl is half as good as he is. But why 
do you speak of Fanchette — is she any thing to you V 



164 Romance of Student Life. 

" Fanchette Crosier to be married !" exclaimed Paul, 
endeavouring to raise himself. 

" Certainly — why not, nion enfant ? These young 
girls all have their day, and so do the boys as well. 
If you will but bestir yourself, your own turn will come 
by and by. I know a pretty little mischievous creature 
that I will recommend for you, if you will only promise 
to behave yourself, worth a dozen of this Fanchette, if 
you ever cared for her." 

The perspiration streamed from Paul's face ; this time 
he was completely electrified. He looked sharply at Dr. 
Lanote, who stood the very personification of imiocence 
and simplicity. 

" It is false," he finally exclaimed : " I ioo7iH believe 
a word of it If I thought it were possible " 

" Just make a journey home and see for yourself," 
interrupted the Doctor, " and if I have misinformed you, 
I will pay the whole expense of it." 

" Then I have my mother to live for," said our 
hero; and, worn out by the natural vehemence of his 
feelings, he sank exhausted on his pillow, and in a few 
mmutes was fast asleep. 

" Done — c'estfini " — muttered Dr. Lanote emphatically. 

" What is done ? — Mo7i Dieu ! — What is finished % 
Dear Doctor — dear Doctor Lanote !" cried Old Man- 
nette in an excited tone. 



The Water-carrier. 165 

" Nurse," said Dr. Lanote, " I am surprised to see 
you forget yourself. In former times you would not 
have been guilty of such imjDrudence. You perceive 
that the boy slumbers naturally. It is the only thing 
which will save him. Keep every thing quiet, every 
thing comfortable. Let him sleep this way through the 
night, and he is safe. 

"An excusable artifice," muttered the Doctor to 

"himself; " it touched his vitality — case for record — 

will look in early ;" and with another glance at the 

slumbering Paul, and another nod of satisfaction, the 

Doctor hurried away. 

It happened precisely as Dr. Lanote had predicted. 
Paul slumbered soundly all night, while Old Mannette 
never left his side, and the next morning he opened 
his eyes very weak and very helpless, but really a new 
man. 

Old Mannette perceived at once the happy change. 
She would not permit Paul to speak a word, but whis- 
pered to him that he was rapidly getting better! The 
latter endeavoured to collect his senses. At length 
what the Doctor had told him of Fanchette flashed upon 
him. He groaned aloud — he could not help it : then he 
asked himself, " Could it be true f and then he felt 
an impatient desire to get well, and satisfy himself on the 
point. At this juncture, Dr. Lanote came gently into ..the 



166 Romance of Student Life. 

room. Approaching Paul's bed, he took his hand and 
said cheerfully, "Now, my bon enfant, you have only 
to keep quiet and get well, and I will see what can be 
done for you." 

"It won't do to undeceive him yet," he said to 
himself; "we must wait till he has more strength." 

Although Paul had at first taken a great antipathy 
to the Doctor, he had already begun to experience a 
change in his feelings towards him. He even endeav- 
oured to return the pressure of the Doctor's hand, and 
was about expressing some words of gratitude, when the 
latter prevented him from speaking. 

"Not a word now — in a few days you may talk as 
much as you like :" and after giving further directions 
to Old Mannette, he directed her in a whisper not to 
spare the few remaining francs which Paul might have 
left, but to be sure and procure certain little delicacies 
which he was even so particular as to name to her. 

Things now went on well enough : to be sure, Paul's 
money was all gone; not a sous, not a centime, was 
left in the purse his mother had given him; indeed, for 
several days Dr. Lanote had himself supplied all the 
desired superfluities. But Paul himself was gaining 
rapidly : after a while he could sit up a little ; then 
he could walk a few times across the room; at length 
he could dress himself. He began to be very impatient 



The Water-carrier. 167 

to get out and breathe the air ; but the Doctor restramed 
him, and Paul was too grateful to be disobedient. He 
was, however, filled with but one thought: it was to 
go back to his native village and satisfy himself of 
the truth or falsehood of the story that Fanchette had 
really given herself to a rival. The stronger Paul 
grew, the less he was inclined to credit the tale, and 
therefore the more desponding he became with regard to 
his own prospects. A singular paradox truly, but so it 
was, and such is human nature. 

It was now early in the spring, and on one pleasant 
day Dr. Lanote called in somewhat later than usual, 
and bade Paul equip himself warmly, and he would 
promise him a drive. Old Mannette bustled about in 
high spirits — indeed, with a glee that seemed rather ex- 
travagant, and which was by no means in accordance with 
Paul's depressed feelings. The latter, however, was soon 
ready, and the three now slowly descended to the street. 

At the entrance to the court-yard there was a horse 
and cart, while a smart, active-looking young fellow stood 
on the latter, as if waiting for orders. 

" It is the new water-carrier^^'' whispered Old Mannette 
to Paul. Paul looked at him with a melancholy expres- 
sion, and was about to turn away, when the man jumped 
lightly from the cart, and touching his hat, said, " Is this 
Monsieur Paul Ferval 1" 



168 Romance of Student Life. 

" Paul Ferval is my name," said our hero. 

" I have brought round the new cart you ordered some 
time since ; it should have been here yesterday, but it was 
not quite finished. Your horse feels well this morning — he 
has not been used lately. He is in excellent condition 
for work — that you may depend on." 

Paul Ferval was thunderstruck. He could not say a 
word, but stared first at the man, then at Dr. Lanote, 
and finally at Old Mannette. Tlie doctor was the first to 
speak. " You may drive into the court-yard," he^ said 
to the man, "and wait till we come back. Come, Paul, 
I have no time to lose — get in." 

The fresh air and the pleasant sun and the agreeable 
change had a sensible effect on Paul's feelings ; but when 
Dr. Lanote remarked very gravely that he believed he 
had a mistake to correct; he had ascertained that the 
Fanchette who was to be married to Jean Grilliet, was 
not Fanchette Crosier — Paul's Fanchette — but doubtless 
some other Fanchette, and so forth ; and when he added 
further, that, instead of the wager which he had ventured 
to make of Paul's expenses home to ascertain the fact, 
he thought he would substitute a good horse and cart 
and equipments, w^hich he had that morning delivered, 
— Paul actually threw his arms around the good Doctor 
and embraced him, frantic with happiness. 

The rest you can all guess. Paul was soon strong 



The Water-carrier. 169 

enough — he went to work — he enlarged his business — he 
was lucky in every thing he did; he was the most 
successful water-carrier in all Paris. Bravo, Paul Ferval ! 

Paul kept his three years' truce religiously. I won't say, 
in all that time he heard nothing from Fanchette Crosier. 
I am inclined to think the little baggage knew just how 
Paul was getting on from one month to another after he 
began with that horse and cart. 

Well, the three years were up, and Paul had accumula- 
ted enough, certainly, to come within the moderate limits 
set by old Nicolas Crosier. 

Yes, the three years were up, and Paul had returned 
his native village and made glad the heart of his good, 
fond mother. 

The next morning, after having equipped himself in 
his best, and received his mother's caresses and compli- 
ments, he left the cottage and took the road to Nicolas 
Crosier's. 

It was a pleasant summer's day, and the old fellow 
sat after dinner on the same balcony, and in the same 
chair, and precisely on the same spot, where he was seated 
three years before, when he made the compact with Paul 
and relieved himself of the handsome vagabond, as he used 
to call him. Nicolas had altered but little in appearance, 
in habit, or in disposition, so far as one could see, unless to 
become a little more arbitrary, a little more sedentary, 

8 



170 Romance of Student Life. 

and a little more gray. On the contrary, Paul had changed 
wonderfully. His frame was stouter, his shoulders were 
broader, his form larger and more manly. Besides, he had 
cultivated, or rather left uncultivated, his beard and 
whiskers and moustache, after the mode called in Paris 
" inculte,^^ and was really a formidable fellow to look at. 
He marched with a firm step toward Nicolas Crosier. 

" £o7i jour, Monsieur Nicolas Crosier,^'' said Paul, in a 
firm, strong voice. 

Nicolas rubbed his eyes, but he did not recognise the 
stranger. 

" Bon jour^"^ he replied. 

" I understand you desire to dispose of a part of your 
farm," said Paul. "If so, I should like to become the 
purchaser." 

" Diable^'' growled Nicolas Crosier. " And / should 
like to know who has been putting such nonsense into 
your head." 

" I want to build a neat little cottage," continued 
Paul, without heeding what was said, " and it strikes me 
I could not be better suited than hereabouts." 

Nicolas Crosier rose slowly to his feet ; something 
in the tone and manner of the stranger was familiar to 
him — something, too, he seemed to recollect about land, 
a cottage, and Paul Ferval. He came close to Paul 
— he recognised him. What he would have done by way 



The Water-carrier. 171 

of further demonstration I am unable to say, for at that 
moment out ran both wife and daughter, and such a sc^ne 
as there was, and such fools as they all made of them- 
selves — according to old Nicolas, who stood waiting to 
put in a word, but could get no opportunity — it would 
be quite impossible to describe. 

After a time, however, the excitement began to sub- 
side, and Paul, taking his purse from his pocket — the 
same purse his mother had pressed on him — now well 
filled with gold-pieces — handed it to Nicolas Crosier, 
saying, "Is this sufficient ? have I performed my part 
of the contract f 

" Sacre bleu ! yes, and you shall see if I will perform 
mine. Here, Fanchette — come here. But, perhaps," said 
Nicolas, stopping suddenly short and trying to assume a 
serious expression, "perhaps Fanchette won't ratify — ha 
— ha — ha! You know I was not to interfere with her. 
— Fanchette, you little witch, what do you say ? — ha — 
ha— ha !" 

What Fanchette said, and so forth, and so forth, 
and so forth, you may judge for yourselves, Messieurs^ 
when I tell you that the wedding took place last Tues- 
day, and Old Mannette, who of course was sent for on 
the occasion, returned to town yesterday, from whom I 
have had the whole tale. 

" And an excellent one it is," shouted all present. 



172 Romance of Student Life. 

"Let us fill and drink the health of Paul and his pretty- 
wife — long life to them !" 

The company broke up in great glee. Laughing, 
talking, singing, and making other lively demonstrations, 
they dispersed to their several apartments. 

Nobody thought of Ernst von Wolzogen and his pic- 
ture ! 



Mornings at La Morgue. 173 



CHAPTER YIII, 



MORNINGS AT LA MORGU 



A MORNING at La Morgue is hardly as agreeable as 
a day at the Louvre, yet it is not without a certain fas- 
cination. Let but the influence once fasten on you, and 
it will be very hard to shake it off. At one period I 
confess it was to me almost irresistible, and I shudder 
sometimes, when I recollect how punctually every morn- 
ing, at the same hour, I took my place on one side of 
that fearful room — not for the purpose of inspecting the 
bodies of the suicides, (I rarely turned to look at them,) 
but to regard the countenances of the anxious ones who 
came to realize the worst, or to take hope till the morrow. 
Literally, there are no spectators in that dismal solitude 
— if we except an occasional visit from the foreign sight- 
hunter, who comes in charge of a valet, and passes in 
and out and away to the " next place." In London or 
in New York, an establishment so public would be 
thronged with persons eager to gratify a prurient curi- 
osity. Not so in Paris. The French possess a sensi- 



174 Romance of Student Life. 

bility so refined — it may be called a species of delicacy 
— that they cannot enjoy such a spectacle, can scarcely 
endure it : and if the tourist will bring the subject to 
mind, he will find that while his guide pointed out the 
entrance, he himself declined going into the apartment. 

I know not how it happened, but, as I have remarked, 
the habit of visiting this spot every morning was fast- 
ened on me. Never shall I forget some of the faces 
I encountered there. One image is impressed on me 
indelibly ; it is that of a woman of middle age, with 
a very pale face, and having the appearance of one strug- 
gling with some wearing sorrow, who for two weeks 
in succession came in daily, and, walking painfully up to 
the partition, looked intently through the lattice-work, 
and turned and went away. I never before felt so 
strong an impulse to accost a person, without yielding 
to it. Indeed, I had resolved to speak to her on the 
morning of the fifteenth day, but she did not come, and 
I never saw her again. Who was she? did her fears 
prove groundless ? what became of her ? An old man 
I remember to have seen — a very old man, feeble and 
decrepit, who came once only, looked at the dead, shook 
his head despairingly, and tottered away : I know not 
if he discovered the object of his search. Young girls 
who had quarrelled with their lovers, and lovers who in 
moments of jealousy had been cruel to their sweethearts, 



Mornings at La Morgue. 175 

would look anxiously in, and generally with relieved spirits 
pass out, almost smilingly, resolving no doubt to make 
all u]) before night should again tempt to suicide. An- 
other incident I cannot omit, although it is impossible to 
recall it without a dreadful pang. One morning a pretty 
fair-haired child, not more than four years old, came 
running in, and clasping the wooden bar with one hand, 
pointed with her little finger through the opening, and 
with a tone of innocent curiosity said, " There's mamma !" 
The same moment two or three rushed in, and, seizing 
the unconscious orphan, carried her hastily away. She 
had wandered after some of the family, and heard enough 
as they came from the fatal place to lead her to suppose 
her lost mamma was there, and so she ran to see. What 
could be the circumstances so untoward, that even the 
child could not bind the mother to life 1 

A long chapter might be written of the occurrences at 
my singular rendezvous, but I had no design of alluding 
to any of them : they naturally come to mind, and I as 
naturally speak of them in connection w^ith what I am 
now going to relate. 

Before the winter was fairly upon us, I resolved to 
spend it in the south of Europe. Partridge, much as 
he desired to accompany me, would not break in on 
his settled plans. He was quite right ; but as our pro- 
fessions were to be different, I had not so good reasons 



176 Romance of Student Life. 

as he for remaining in Paris. Accordingly I left for 
Italy. In this way, I got rid of the horrible nightmare 
impulse to which I have alluded, and although I returned 
the following season I never again entered La Moi-gue. . . 

It was in the summer when I came back. The foliage 
was deep and green, and in the Jar din des Plants^ which 
was near my quarters, the various flowers and shrubs 
and trees filled the atmosphere with fragrance, and 
tempted us to frequent strolls along its avenues. 

" Come with me at six o'clock," said my friend Part- 
ridge, " and you shall see an apparition." 

"Where?" 

" I will not tell you till we are on the spot." 

" I will go, but hope the place is an agreeable one." 
Just then, I know not why, I thought of La Morgue, 
and shuddered. 

" The most agreeable in all Paris." 

This conversation took place in the Hospital, just as 
we were finishing our morning occupation of following 
Louis through the fever wards. Partridge was once more 
my room-mate, having, as I have said, remained behind 
during my late tour, to devote himself more entirely to 
his medical pursuits, while I, beginning to tire of the 
lectures of Broussais, and the teacliings of Majendie, 
yielded to the temptation and ran away from both; 



Scene in the Garden. 177 

and, even now that I had returned, was induced every 
day to slip across to the rue Vivlenne, where were 
staying some fascinating strangers, whose acquaintance I 
had made en route, and who had begun to engross me 
too much for any steady progress in my studies ; at 
least, so thought Partridge, who shook his head and 
said it would not do for a student to cross the Seine — 
he ought to stay in his own quartier — that I had too 
much recreation as it was — I should forget the little I 
knew — and as for the rue Viviemie, and the Boulevart 
des lialiens, the rue de la Faix, &c., I must break oif 
all such associations or be read out of the community. 
I was glad, therefore, to appease my friend by consent- 
ing to go with him — I knew not where — and see an 
apparition. 

Accordingly, a few minutes before six, we started to- 
gether on the strange adventure. We passed down the 
street which leads to the Jardin des Plants^ and, entering 
through the main avenue, walked nearly its entire lengthy 
when my companion turned into a narrow path, almost 
concealed by the foliage, which brought us into a small 
open space. Here he motioned me to stop, and, pointing 
to a rustic bench, we both sat down. At the same mo- 
ment, the chimes from a neighbouring chapel pealed the 
hour of six, and while I was still listening to them, my 
friend seized my arm and exclaimed in a whisper, " Look !" 

8* 



178 Romance of Student Life. 

I cast my eyes across to the other side, and beheld a 
figure advancing slowly toward us. It was that of a 
young girl, in appearance scarcely seventeen. Her form 
was light and graceful, simply draped in a loose robe of 
white muslin. On her head she Avore a straw hat, in 
which were placed conspicuously a bunch of fresh spring 
blossoms. The gloves and mantelet seemed to have 
been forgotten. Her demeanour was one of gentleness 
and modesty. She cast her eyes around as if expecting 
to meet a companion, and then quietly sat down on 
a rude seat not very far from where we were. I re- 
mained for ten minutes patiently waiting a demonstration 
of some kind, either from my companion or the strange 
appearance near us. But now I began to yield to the 
influence of the scene. Tlie sun was declining, and cast 
a mellow and saddening light over the various objects 
around. Gradually, as I gazed on the motionless form 
of the maiden, I felt impressed with awe, which was 
heightened by the solemn manner of my friend, who 
appeared as much under the charm as myself. At 
length I whispered to him, " For Heaven's sake, tell 
me what does all this mean ?" A low " Hush," with 
an expressive gesture to enforce quiet, was the only 
response. I ixiade no further attempt to interrupt the 
silence, but sat spell-bound, always looking at the figure, 
until I was positively afraid to take my eyes from it. 



Partridge Explains. 179 

Again the chimes began their peal for the completion 
of the last quarter. It was seven o'clock. The moment 
they ceased, the girl rose from her seat, glanced slowly, 
sadly, earnestly around, pressed her hands across her 
eyes, and proceeded in her path toward us. We both 
stood up as she came near ; my friend lifted his hat 
from his head in the most respectful manner as the 
maiden passed, while she in return gazed vacantly on 
him, and, walking slowly by, disappeared in the direction 
opposite that from which she came. We did not remain, 
but proceeded with a quickened pace to our lodgings. 
Arrived there, I asked for an explanation of what we had 
witnessed. 

" Do you remember," asked Partridge, " Alfred Der- 
villy r 

"Perfectly. He was your room-mate after I left 
you last winter, and twenty times I have been on the 
point of inquiring for him, but something at each moment 
prevented. Where is he ?" 

« Dead." 

"Dead! How? when?" 

" Killed by the apparition yonder." 

" Nonsense ! Do not talk any more in riddles. Out 
with what you have to say about Dervilly and the 
apparition, as you call it, and this afternoon's adven- 
ture." 



180 Romance of Student Life. 

" Bien, let us light the candles, fasten the doors, close 
the windows, and take a fresh segar." 

This was soon done, and, accommodating himself to 
his seat in a comfortable manner, my companion com- 
menced the history of 



€)i Mt 3fit!5ttrt[. 



" Yes — you recollect Dervilly of course, and must 
remember that before you left us we used to joke him 
about a fair unknown, who was engaging so much of his 
time." 

" I had forgotten — but I now recall the circumstance ; 
I remember, I was walking with him near the ' Garden,' 
and he made some trivial excuse to leave me and turn into 
it. You afterwards told me he had an appointment there, 
but I thought little of it." 

" Well, I will give you the story as I now have it, 
quite complete, for T was partly in Dervilly's confidence, 
and was with him during his illness, and when he died. 
He was born in Louisiana, of French parents, who, after 
spendmg some years in America, returned to their na- 
tive country. He spoke English fluently, as you know, 
and when you deserted me we became very intimate. 
TTien it was I learned how deeply the poor fellow was 
in love, actually iii love. No mere transitory emotion 



The Fair Mystery. 181 

— no momentary passion for an adventure — no affair of 
gallantry, was this : his very being was absorbed — he 
became wholly changed — it seemed as if he had bound 
himself, body and soul, to some spirit of another world. 
I never saw, never read, of so engrossing a feeling. At 
last he confessed to me. He said he had met, a few 
months before, at the house of a former friend of his 
family, who had been of considerable consequence under 
the previous reign, but was now reduced, and lived in 
obscurity, a creature of most exquisite shape and feature, 
who proved on acquaintance to be possessed with a loveli- 
ness of character, a modesty, an irresistible charm of 
manner, which took him captive. Dervilly became com- 
pletely enamoured with Emilie de Coigny. This he 
discovered to be her name, but on inquiring of the per- 
sons at whose house he first met her, he could get no 
satisfactory information ; indeed, a very singular reserve, 
as poor Dervilly thought, was maintained whenever she 
was mentioned, so that he could not, in fact, glean the 
slightest particulars about her. This did not prevent 
him from confessing his passion, for the girl came fre- 
quently to this house, and their acquaintance ripened 
very fast. Emilie de Coigny felt for the first time that 
her heart was occupied, and all that restlessness of spirit 
caused by the unconscious longing of the affections laid 
at rest, and Alfred Dervilly became the sole object of her 



182 Romance of Student Life. 

hopes, if hopes she had. All this, I repeat, Emilie de 
Coigny felt ; but, singular to say, she hesitated to confess 
it, even when her lover passionately entreated; it seemed 
as if something stood between her and happiness, to 
which she feared to, allude. It is not easy to deceive 
the heart', and Dervilly knew, despite the apparent 
calmness of Emilie, despite her sometimes cold de- 
meanour, that he was loved in return. But one thing 
troubled and perplexed him; one thing filled him with 
vague fears and apprehensions, and checked the ecstatic 
feelings which were ready to overflow within him. A 
mystery hung about this beautiful girl ; she claimed 
no one for her friend, she spoke of no acquaintances, 
she never alluded to parents, or to brother or sister-, or 
other relation ; she made no mention of her home. Be- 
sides, a strange sadness, strange in one so young, seemed 
to possess her, and to pervade her spirit; and while 
contemplating that imperturbable countenance, Dervilly 
at times felt an awe come over him for which he could 
not account, and which for moments subdued even the 
force of his passion. It appeared to him then, as if he 
were under a spell ; but presently, when a gentle smile 
illumined her face, her eyes would be turned on him 
so lovingly, and her look express, as plainly as look could, 
that all her trust was in him and in him only. Dervilly 
would forget every thing in the raptures of such mo- 



The Fair Mystery. 183 

ments; indeed, in his ecstasy he would be driven almost 
to madness; for of all characters," continued Partridge, 
"hers was the one to set a youth of ardent temperament 
absolutely crazy. So matters advanced, or rather, I should 
say, so time advanced, while affairs did not. It was at 
this period," said my friend, " that Dervilly gave me his 
confidence. Our intimacy had gradually increased from, 
the hour of your leaving us, and at length he unbosomed 
himself completely. My first impression, after hearing 
his story, was that the pretty mademoiselle was no more 
nor less than an arrant flirt ; that her charms were 
magnified to a lover's vision ; and that the mystery which 
attended her would turn out to be no mystery at all. 
So I treated the case lightly, laughed at his description, 
called Mademoiselle Emilie a coquette, and added, a 
little seriously, that it was a shame for her to trifle with 
so warm-hearted a fellow. You know how grating are 
the disparaging remarks of a friend about one in whom 
we confess to ourselves a deeper interest than we care 
to acknowledge to the unsympathizing. What I had said 
was kindly intended, but it touched Dervilly to the quick. 
" ' 1 did not think you capable,' he exclaimed, ' of 
thus making light of my confidence — I find I was 
deceived. You are at liberty to make as much sport 
of me as you will. I have learned a lesson which I will 
take care to remember.' 



184 Romance of Student Life. 

" ' You must not speak so,' I said ; ' I really was 
not serious. I take back every word. I would not 
wound you for the world. Forgive me.' Then we 
shook hands, and Dervilly assured me I had misjudged 
his Emilie ; he would ask her permission to intro- 
duce me, and I should see for myself The permis- 
sion was never accorded, although Dervilly urged to 
IV^ademoiselle de Coigny that I was his best and almost 
only friend. She was unyielding ; she would not see me. 
Meanwhile his passion increased with every impediment 
— yet he gained no assurance of its being returned, save 
what his heart whispered to him. 

"In the Jardin des Plants they were accustomed 
to meet daily, when the weather was propitious — so 
much Emilie yielded to her lover — and spend an 
hour together ; and if they could not meet in the 
open air, they repaired to the house where they first 
became acquainted. On one occasion Dervilly, unable 
to bear suspense any longer, seized her hand, and pas- 
sionately pledged himself, his existence, his soul, his all, 
to Emilie de Coigny; he swore his fate was indissolu- 
bly linked with hers, that their destiny could not be 
severed, and he demanded from her an avowal of the 
truth of what he said. The violence of Dervilly alarmed 
her ; she drew her hand from his, and looking him steadily 
in the face, inquired : 



The Fair Mystery. 185 

" ' What has prompted Monsieur to this sudden show 
of feeling V 

" * Do you ask whatf exclaimed Dervilly: 'it is 
you. Are you not answered 1 How can I resist- what 
is inevitable "? how curb myself when all hold is lost 1 
Dieu mercif be not so deadly calm — it means the worst 
for me — be angry, vexed, any thing, but look not on me 
with that glazed look — it maddens me.' 

" ' Monsieur Dervilly,' said Emilie, without change of 
tone or manner, ' what you have said, if it means any 
thing, means every thing ; it means all a maiden longs to 
hear from lips that are beloved. To respond, I must 
be assured how far your judgment will confirm what now 
seems to be a mere passionate ebullition. Excuse me,' 
she continued, as Dervilly made an impatient gesture ; 
'I have heard and read of similar protestations which 
had little true significance.' 

" ' I accept any conditions,' interrupted the young 
man, 'and will bless you from the depths of my soul 
for naming any, even the hardest ; yes, the hardest — 
I care not what, so that they are from you.' 

" The girl regarded Dervilly as if she would search his 
very nature. ' You are silent — speak ; I can no longer 
contain myself,' exclaimed he, wildly. 

" ' Monsieur,' once more observed Mademoiselle de 
Coigny, 'you know not to whom you address yourself; 
r 



186 Romance of Student Life. 

should I tell you, you would retract all those strong 
words, and hasten to escape in the least humiliating way 
possible.' 

" ' Never. Heaven is my witness, never. I care not 
who you are; I will never seek to know; when you 
choose, you shall inform me. You need never tell me. 
I say, I care not, so that you are mine.' 

" ' And you Avill be mine for ever V said the girl 
slowly. 

" ' For ever.' 

" ' I am yours — yours,' and Emilie de Coigny sunk 
mto the arms of her lover. 

" In one instant the fortunes of Dervilly were changed : 
— from despair he was raised to a condition of delicious 
joy. His raptures were so unnatural, that I cautioned 
him against such violent indulgence of them. But he was 
too excited to listen to me. Indeed, I feared that he 
would lose his reason. It seemed as if more than ordi. 
nary passion had possession of him, and that it was 
inspired by something unearthly ; and, without ever 
having seen the girl, I began to attribute to her a super- 
natural influence. Besides, Dervilly confessed he knew 
as little of his affianced as before, and that occasionally 
the same icy look would be turned on him, as it were 
quite inadvertently, and hold him spellbound with horror, 
while it still served to increase his frenzy beyond all 



The Fair Mystery. 187 

bounds. Then, her endearing smiles, her truthful and con- 
fiding love, her absolute reliance, her entire dependence, 
on Dervilly, made him so frantic with happmess, that he 
lost all capacity to reason. 

"The season passed away, but Dervilly had learned 
nothing more of the history of his betrothed ; she still 
avoided the subject, and, when he alluded to it, she would 
beg him to desist, and hide her face in his bosom and 
weep. 

" Strange thoughts at last found their way into his 
brain, fearful surmises began to disturb his peace, and, 
when absent from Emilie, he would resolve at their 
next interview, to insist on knowing all. But when the 
time came, and he met, turned on him, the open and 
innocent look of the maiden's clear eyes, which ex- 
pressed so earnestly how entirely her soul rested on 
his, all courage failed him, and he could not go on. . . 



" One evening," continued Partridge, after a pause, 
and with the tone of a person approaching an un- 
pleasant subject, " one evening, after dinner — I think 
it was the last week in May — I recollect the day had 
been quite warm — I strolled into the large garden which 
you remember belonged to our old lodgings in the rue 



188 Romance of Student Life. 

Copeau, and after a while sat down in the summer- 
house. Presently little Sophie Lecomte came running 
out to me, and I remained amusing myself with the 
child's prattle till it was dark. The moon shone brightly, 
and I did not perceive how late it was, until reminded 
of the hour by finding that Sophie was fast asleep in 
my lap. I rose and carried her into the house, and 
went cpietly to my room. I seated myself near the window 
without lighting the candles, feeling that the glare would 
not then harmonize with my feelings. The truth is, I 
was thinking of you, and of that romantic passage across 
the Apennines, and of the fair stranger, and so forth. I 
sat by the window, the moonlight streaming across the 
room, over the top of the old chapel, the windows and 
doors open, and every thing still, except the monotonous 
chirping of a single cricket, louder than that of any French 
cricket I ever heard before, and which sung the very 
same song I used to hear when a boy, from under the 
large kitchen hearthstone at home. 

' I began to feel a little lonely, and so started up, 
and stamped with my feet in order to silence the 
solitary insect, or arouse the rest of the family ; but 
the old one only sung the harder, and the others 
would not wake, and I sat down again, and half-closed 
my eyes in order to lose myself, if I could, in 
some pleasant revery. My eyes were half closed, the 



The Fair Mystery. 189 

perfume from the graperies filled the room, and had a 
pleasant effect upon my senses, and thus I began to forget 
where I was and what was about me. Presently I heard 
a rapid, unsteady step along the corridor; it grew more 
rapid and more unsteady ; I raised my head, and at that 
instant Dervilly hurried into the room. 

"'I knew it — I knew it,' he exclaimed, wildly; 'one 
of the sirens sent from hell ! I have sold myself, body 
and soul ! — I am lost — lost. Ah ! I knew it — I knew it.' 

" Shocked and surprised as I was by such an extraordi- 
nary scene, I did not forget that Dervilly w^as of a most 
nervous and excitable temperament. I rose, took hold 
of him kindly, and asked him what had happened. As I 
placed my hand on his head, I perceived that the veins 
were distended, and that the carotid and temporal arteries 
were throbbing violently. I hastened to strike a light, 
while he continued to repeat nearly the words I have just 
mentioned in a wild and incoherent manner. I could 
now see his countenance, and it seemed as if the destroyer 
had been ravaging it. His cap was gone. His hair, 
which was usually so neatly arranged, was tossed over 
his face in twisted locks ; his eyes were fixed, and blood- 
shot, and sparkling, 

" ' My dear friend, you are ill — you are excited — ^let 
me bring you to your bed ;' (we occupied the large room 
in common, with a small bedroom for each, leading from 



190 Romance of Student Life. 

it ;) with tliis I took his arm, and gently urged him to his 
apartment. 

" ' Not there, not there !' he cried, vehemently ; 
"have I not lain there^ night after night, thinking of 
her? — have I not dreamed there happy dreams, and 
seen dear delightful visions? Not there — never — never 
again !' 

" ' You shall not,' I said, endeavouring to humour 
him ; ' you shall lie in my bed, and I will watch by you 
till you are better.' 

"The young man burst into tears. This action evi- 
dently relieved him, and made him more rational, for 
he took my arm and I assisted him to bed, and tried to 
soothe him ; but he soon relapsed into an excited fever. 
Shortly after, he called me to him, and, throwing his arms 
closely around me, exclaimed, ' Partridge, we were born 
in the same land ; I implore you, by that one common 
tie, not to leave me an instant ; I am a doomed wretch ; 
but save me, save me from the fiend, as long as it is 
possible.' 

" I now became very much alarmed. My first im- 
pulse was to administer an opiate ; but the case seemed 
so critical that I determined to send at once for Louis, 
whose sympathy for the students, you know, is uni- 
versal. I called to young Stabb, who occupied the 
next room, and he set off immediately. After a few 



The Fair Mystery. 191 

minutes Dervilly dozed a little ; and then he started 
up, and gazed around, as if attempting to discern some 
object. • 

" ' Do you wish for any thing V I said. He took no 
notice of my question, but continued to glance piercingly 
in every direction. 

" ' What do you see V I asked. 

" ' La Morgue P he exclaimed, with a shudder, and 
pointing into the other room — ' la Morgue P 

" He continued to gaze madly in the same way, still 
holding his arm outstretched, while his whole frame 
seemed convulsed with terror ; but I could gain no clue 
to the catastrophe which had fallen so terribly on the ill- 
fated sufferer. 

" It seemed to me an age — it really was but an hour — 
before Stabb returned. He was accompanied by Louis. 
You know his skill as a physician, and especially in the 
treatment of fevers, is world-renowned. I had ' followed' 
him during the whole of your absence ; had become, as a 
matter of course, one of his warmest admirers ; and was 
fortunate enough to secure his friendship. He also knew 
Dervilly. Hearing them enter, I stepped into the princi- 
pal room to meet him. 

" ' J/b?i Dieu ! Monsieur Partridge, quel est le malP 
said Louis, with great feeling. ''Monsieur Dervilly was 
at the Hospital in the morning, and I met him as late 



192 Romance of Student Life. 

as six o'clock this afternoon, passing into the Jardin des 
Plants' 

" ' God only knows,' I replied. ^Bomething horrible 
has suddenly befallen him.' And I gave an account 
of what had occurred since Dervilly came to his rooms. 

" Louis was silent for a moment, and then began to 
question me very minutely about him, while Stabb went in 
to keep watch over the poor fellow. — Among other things, 
I mentioned his love affair; and, believing it to be my 
duty to do so, I told Louis, briefly, all Dervilly had 
confided to me. He listened with great attention, and 
after I had concluded, we passed into the little chamber 
where Dervilly lay. 

" He started up with violence as we came in, as if a 
severe paroxysm were about to follow. He stared 
wildly on seeing Louis, and, seizing his hand, he ex- 
claimed, 'Ah, mon Professeur, you are a very great 
man, and you are very kind to come to me, but your 
knowledge avails nothing here,' touching his forehead. 
Suddenly he extended his finger, and cried again, ' La 
Morgue — la Morgue.'' 

" ' What see you in la Morgue ?'' said Louis, tenderly. 

"'See? ^er, Aer/' screamed Dervilly. 

" * Who, mon enfant V said the Professor, very gently. 

" ' Who, but the fiend — the fiend ! She has my soul — 
lost, lost for ever.' 



The Fair Mystery. 193 

" ' You should not speak so harshly of Mademoiselle 
de Coigny,' continued Louis, in a soothing tone. 

" ' Pronounce not that name : a bait, a trap, a ^vile of 
Satan ; repeat it, and I ^vill tear you piecemeal !' cried the 
maniac. 

"'But, mon pauvre enfant^ what does she at la 
Morgue *?' 

" ' She ? the fiends;— the fiend — sits perched on the top 
of the wooden rail all night, watching — watching — and 
when some of the corpses show signs of life, sails down, 
and sits upon, and strangles them. Keep me away from 
there. Ah, mon Frofesseur, do not let me go there, to lie 
on the board, and have her bending over me, eyeing me, 
watching me, ready to strangle me. There again ! keep 
those glazed eyes away — keep them away, I say.' 

" All this time Louis was making a minute examination 
of Dervilly's symptoms. 

"The latter presently seemed aware of what he was 
doing, for he exclaimed, ' The usual symptoms, eh, mon 
Professeur ? strongly marked, n'^est ce pas ? Act prompt- 
ly and decisively, as you say sometimes. Let blood — let 
l^lood — a2)pliquez des sang^ues — ha, ha, ha ! that's what we 
call bleeding, both general and local, ha, ha, ha ! then come 
on with your cold applications : ice, ice, a moiuitain of ice 
piled round about the head ! follow up with cathartics, 
refrigerant diaphoretics ; after, depleting blister ! — say you 

9 



194 Romance of Student Life. 

not so ? — blisters to the nape of the neck — blisters behind 
the ears — shave the scalp — I forgot that — shave the scalp 
— strange I had not thought of it, — and the hair, mori 
Professetir, I know you will think me very foolish, but — 
— save the hair — I sha'n't have another growth — save the 
hair. Where was 11 — ah, the blisters — that will pretty 
nearly do for me — keep every thing quiet, very quiet — 
after a while, digitalis and nitre — digitalis and nitre, 77io)i 
Professeur — have I not said my lesson well V 

" Louis stood perfectly still, regarding the poor fellow 
with a mournful interest. As Dervilly paused, he took 
off his spectacles and wiped his eyes, ' Ah, Monsieur 
Louis, you talk very eloquently about medical science, but 
I baffle you ; I am sure of it. Call the class together — 
Ah^ Notre Dame de Pitie — call the class together ; voila 
la clinique. Thus being thus, it must necessarily be thus. 
That's a wise saying, moii Professeur. Call the class 
together ; propound why of necessity you can do nothing ? 
because of a necessity nothing can be done. Call the class 
together ; be active — vigorously antiphlogistic ; time is 
precious — the patient in danger. Purgatives — I doubt 
as to purgatives. What think you V And Dervilly 
paused, and cast on Louis a look so naturally inquiring, 
that the latter replied, as it were, involuntarily, ' Moi aussi 
je doute.'' 

" And it was so ; M'ith all his genius, all his knowl- 



The Fair Mystery. 195 

edge, all his experience, and all his skill, the great 
practitioner stood, while minute after minute was lost, 
apparently hesitating what to do. At last he called me 
into the other room. ' Is it not possible to find Mademoi- 
selle de Coigny V he inquired. 

" ' I have no means of knowing where to seek her,' I 
replied. At the same time I remembered she was in the 
habit of visiting the house in which Dervilly first met her, 
and fortunately knew the street and number. 

" ' Let her be sent for instantly,' said Louis. ' Do not 
go yourself; you may be of service here.' Accordingly 
I gave Stabb the direction, and instructed him to procure 
Mademoiselle de Coigny's address, if possible ; but if he 
w^ere unsuccessful in this, to communicate the fact of 
Dervilly's alarming illness, and beg that Mademoiselle 
might be immediately summoned. 

" We returned to the sick room, and Louis, seating himself 
in a chair, remained lost in thought for nearly a quarter of 
an hour, w^hile I did what I could to pacify the sufferer. I 
could not help wondering that a man, so prompt and so 
efficient, should lose a moment when the least delay w-as 
to be avoided ; and as I was reflecting on this, Louis 
rose so suddenly from his seat that I w^as startled. 

" ' There is but one course, and the poor boy has very 
accurately defined it. Let his head be shaved, and pillowed 
in ice ; bleed him at once — if he faints, all the better.' 



196 Romance of Student Life. 

" ' No danger of that,' shouted Dervilly. ' No syncope 
with me but the last syncope — no syncope — ha, ha, ha ! 
double the ounces — you are timid — no syncope, I say — 
no syncope.' 

" He continued the whole time raving, much in the 
manner I have described. The room was kept quite 
dark, and no one was permitted to come in. Louis did 
not leave the bedside the entire night. Dervilly never 
slept for an instant. 

" On one occasion he started suddenly and threw him- 
self close on one side, and screamed, ' Take her away — 
take her away !' 

" ' What is it V I asked. 

" ' Do you not see her f he shrieked, ' sitting on the 
side of the bed, looking into my eyes ; take her away, 
take her away !' 

" I need not detail to you," continued Partridge, " the 
whole of these fearful scenes. Late in the evening Stabb 
returned ; he had found the house ; and although he could 
not obtain Mademoiselle de Coigny's address, he was 
promised that his message should be communicated early 
in the morning. 

" ' It will be too late,' said Louis, mournfully. 

" What a long night it was ! The morning dawned at 
last, but it brought no change to poor Dervilly. I had 
sent for his nearest relative, who lived over on the Boule- 



The Fair Mystery. 197 

vard Poissonniere, and was awaiting his arrival with con- 
siderable anxiety. 

" It was not later than nine. Stabb, the good fellow, 
had relieved me from my watch, and I was in the 
sitting-room, in my large arm-chair, still anxious and 
fearful, when there came a slight tap at the door; it 
opened, and Emilie de Coigny stood before me. Ah, 
how beautiful she was, yet how terrified ! It was not 
terror of excitement — mere surface passion — but from the 
depths of her soul. She was stirred by intense emotion. 
' Tell me,' she said, coming earnestly up to me, ' tell me 
where he is, and what has happened to him !' I put my 
finger on my lips to prevent her from saying more, and led 
her to the further corner of the room ; but she would not 
sit down ; she begged to be told every thing at once ; and 
I, in a low voice, gave Mademoiselle de Coigny a minute 
account of all I had witnessed. When I came to Dervilly's 
exclamation, ' La Morgue — la Morgue^ the young girl 
became suddenly very pale, her fortitude forsook her, and 
she murmured faintly, ' He saw me go in — he saw me 
go in.' 

" I must admit I was, for the moment, not a little trem- 
ulous. I recollected stories of devils taking possession 
of the dead bodies of virgins, in order to lure young men 
to perdition. I thought of the tale of the German student, 
who, on retiring with his bride, beheld her head roll from 



198 Romance of Student Life. 

her body, (she had been guillothied that morning,) leaving 
him wedded to the foul fiend. In spite of me, I looked 
on the pale sti'icken creature before me as in one way or 
another connected with the adversary, and holding a com- 
mission from the prince of the Power of the Air. I had 
little time for thought on the subject, for Mademoiselle de 
Coigny insisted on seeing Dervilly. I hesitated, but she 
was decided. She threw aside her pretty straw hat, and 
a light shawl, and stepped toward the apartment where her 
lover lay. She passed the threshold before he saw her. 
She called him by his name, ' Alfred.' 

" He turned, and, as his eyes fell on her, he uttered 
mad exclamations, crouching frantically in the furthest 
corner of the bed. 

" ' Avaunt !' he screamed ; ' vampyre — devil — owl of 
hell — come no nearer ;• (she still advanced, calling to 
him tenderly;) '1 know that siren voice; it has damned 
and double-damned me. — Partridge ! Stabb ! take her 
away, or,' he continued, in a fierce tone, ' I will do 
second execution on her.' 

" Poor girl ! — it was too much — she swooned away. 

" You may imagine that it was a terrible scene," con- 
tinued Partridge. "I set to work immediately for her 
recovery, having first carried her out of the room where 
Dervilly lay. She opened her eyes at last, but what a 
look of anguish was in them! 'Is he better?' she asked 



The Fair Mystery. 199 

in a faint tone. 1 shook my head. ' Tell me,' she ex- 
claimed, ' will he die ? oh, will he, must he die V 

" ' He is very sick. Mademoiselle.' 

" ' I have killed him, I have killed him,' she cried. 

" ' Pardon me,' said I, ' JMonsieur Dervilly is in great 
danger ; still if we knew the cause of this dreadful attack 
we might gain some advantage by it.' 

" ' Ah, it is my work,' murmured the fair mystery to 
herself, without heeding my observation ; ' I have done it, 
and if he dies, I am a murderer — his murderer.' 

" She appeared no way disposed to betray her secret, 
and I did not press the subject. Presently Louis came 
in. He made his inquiries of me, and then went to the 
patient. There was no change, except in the increase of 
fatal symptoms. The delirium was more furious, the 
pulse hard, full, frequent, and vibrating. The most 
vigorous course was adopted; two other students were 
called in to assist Stabb and myself, and every means 
used to give effect to the prescribed treatment. 

" As for Mademoiselle de Coigny, she remained in the 
sitting-room, the picture of intense anguish. I urged her to 
retire, but she shook her head. I now begged her to tell 
me what had. caused this strange attack, but she was silent. 
At length I went and called JMadame Lecomte — you recol- 
lect what a kind-hearted creature she was — and told her 
Ivriefly the little I knew of the unfortunate girl. She an- 



200 Romance of Student Life. 

swered the summons at once, and in the most gentle 
manner endeavoured to persuade Mademoiselle de Coigny 
to go with her. It was in vain. She would not leave the 
room. Occasionally, through the day, she would step to 
Dervilly's bedside, and in the softest, sweetest, gentlest 
tone I ever heard, say, 'Alfred.' The effect was always 
the same as at first, exciting the poor fellow^ to still deeper 
paroxysms and more violent exclamations. 

" On the fourth day he died ; the symptoms becoming 
more and more aggravating, until coma supervened 
to delirium. During the whole period of his sickness 
Mademoiselle de Coigny never left the house — scarcely 
the room — Madame Lecomte on two or three occa- 
sions almost forcing the wretched girl away to her own 
apartments. When poor Dervilly sunk into that deep 
lethargic slumber, so much dreaded by the physician, 
because so fatal, she came almost joyfully into his cham- 
ber, and threw her arms tenderly around him : 

" ' He sleeps at last,' she said ; ' is it not well f 

" I would have given the world for the freedom of burst- 
ing into tears, so deeply w^as I affected by that hopeful, 
trustful question. What could I do, but shake my head 
mournfully and hasten out of the place ? 

" He died, and made no sign ; not a word, not a look, 
not the slightest pressure of the hand, for the one he 
loved so tenderly, and w^ho watched so anxiously for 



The Fair Mystery. 201 

some slight token. 'Oh,' I exclaimed to myself, as the 
hardness of such a fate was impressed on me, ' God is 
just ; there is an hereafter ; these two must meet again. 

" Emilie de Coigny left the room where her dead 
lover lay, only when he himself was borne to his last 
resting-place. She followed him to the spot where he 
was buried in Pere la Chaise^ and remained standing by it 
after every one else had come away. In this position she 
was found — standing over the grave — late at night by her 
friends — some members of the family I have mentioned — 
who sought her out. She left that splendid city of the 
dead bereft of reason, and so she has ever since continued. 
When the day is fine, she invariably keeps her fancied 
engagement with her lover at the appointed place in the 
Jardin des Plants ; she patiently sits the hour, and retires 
sadly, as you saw her. When the weather is forbidding, 
she goes to her friend's house and waits the same period, 
never showing the least symptom of impatience, but, on 
the contrary, evincing the signs of a bruised but most 
gentle spirit." 

Here Partridge paused, as if at the end of his story. 
"Is that ain" said I. 
"That is all," he responded. 

" Surely not," I continued ; " you have said nothing 
about the strange mystery which killed our poor friend, 

9* 



202 Romance of IS t u d e n t Life. 

and which, as it seems to me, is the main point in the 
story." 

" True enough — it is smgular I should have left it out, 
but it is explained in a word. These same friends of 
Mademoiselle de Coigny gave me the information. 

"It appears that on one inclement night, as the Iceeper 
of the Morgue was returning from an official visit to the 
Chief of Police, tow^ard his owai quarters, which are adjoin- 
ing and over the dead room^ he stumbled over something 
which a flash of lightning at the instant showed to be the 
body of a man. He was quite dead, but, nestled down 
close by his side, with one of her little hands on his flice, 
was a child, about two years of age. Jean Maurice Sorel, 
although long inured to repulsive sights, had not grow^n cal- 
lous to misery. By birth he was considerably above his 
somewhat ignominious office ; he had narrowly escaped 
with his life when Louis XYL was brought to the scaffold, 
for some indiscreet expressions that savoured too much of 
royalty ; yet in the tumults which succeeded, he had, he 
scarcely knew how, through some influence w^ith the chief 
of one of the departments, been appointed to this repulsive 
duty. But, as I have said, his heart was just as kind as 
ever, after many years discharge of it ; and Jean Maurice 
Sorel, instead of repining at his lot, blessed God daily that 
he had the means of supporting a wife and children, while 
so many of his old friends had literally starved to death. 



The Fair Mystery. 203 

Such was the person who stumbled over the body of the 
dead man, and discovered the living child beside it. He 
called at once for assistance, and had the corpse conveyed 
to his house, while he carried the little girl in his arms. 
She was too young to give any information about herself, 
but, on searching the pockets of the deceased, several pa- 
pers Avere found which disclosed enough to satisfy Jean 
Maurice Sorel that in the wasted, attenuated form before 
him, he beheld his once friend and benefiictor the Mar- 
quis de Coigny, who, he supposed, had perished by the 
guillotine in the revolution. The papers permitted no 
doubt of the fact that the little girl was his grand-daugh- 
ter and only descendant, and she was commended to the 
care of the kind hearted when death should overtake 
him. 

"The old Marquis was buried, and the little Emilie 
adopted into the family of the good Jean Maurice. Her 
education was conducted in a manner far superior to that 
of his own children, and the choicest garments of those 
which fell to him were selected to be made over for her. 
Perhaps unwisely, her history was explained to her, so that 
she lived all her life with the sense that she belonged in a 
different sphere ; not that she was ungrateful or un amiable 
— quite the contrary — she was sweet-tempered, affectionate, 
and gentle, and loved by Jean Maurice and all his flimily 
with a devoted fondness : but the world had charms for her 



204 Romance of Student Life. 

which the world withheld ; she felt that she never could 
become an object of love where she could love in return, 
and so she repined at her destiny. 

" By accident she made the acquaintance of the fam- 
ily where Dervilly first met her. They had known 
her father and her grandfather, and she loved them for 
that. She resisted for a long time the feeling for her 
lover which she perceived was taking strong hold of 
her, and, when she could resist no longer, she yet de- 
layed to tell him what a home she inhabited. This 
was her pride — her weakness — and how terribly did she 
pay the penalty ! Day after day, (so I was told,) she 
resolved to explain all, but she procrastinated, till her 
lover, no longer able to restrain his anxiety, and full of 
excitements and fears and perturbations, followed her at 
some little distance, just at twilight, and saw, or fancied 
he saw, her enter the Morgue. It was too much for his 
nervous temperament. His brain caught fire — he came 
home raving with delirium — and died ! Now you have 
the whole." 



Changes. 205 



CHAPTER IX. 



CHANGES. 



When I came back to Paris, — 1 alluded in the last 
chapter to my absence and return, — I found most of our 
old company still there, but occupying other quarters. In 
justice to our friend, Monsieur Battz, and his interesting 
daughters, I should say that it was through no fault or 
inattention of theirs, but from the mere desire of change, 
that our clique one day made their exodus from the rue 
Copeau^ and took possession of a habitation in an adjoining 
street. 

To be sure, there were some advantages in the new 
location. The house — it was a very large one — had been 
unoccupied for nearly two years : it had the reputation of 
being haunted, as a matter of course. The young fellow 
who kept the billiard-room, where some of our party used 
to congregate, had married, and at a venture rented the 
old cobweb-covered mansion. By the change we lost the 
cockney, and two or three others ; a few also of our com- 
panions had left Paris, and their places had been supj^lied 
by others. By the time I got back every thing was 



206 Romance of Student Life. 

settled, except the ghosts : according to the Italian, ^Yho 
occupied with his friend a remote part of the building, 
and who delighted always in the marvellous, there were 
strange doings every night, immediately after twelve 
o'clock, in the long corridor which ran by his room. No 
one could tell whether the Italian was serious or jesting ; 
he was the first to pass a night in the house, and claimed 
to have more authentic information than the rest about 
this very delicate subject. 

For myself, I recommenced my walks, and became 
again very regular in my pursuits, so that even Partridge 
was fain to commend me. Next to him, none were so well 
pleased to welcome me as Clements ; he had a great? 
deal to tell me, and our intimacy became stronger than 
ever. One evening several of us happened to meet in 
the Italian's room: the latter appeared for a time in 
much better spirits than usual, and amused us with 
many laughable reminiscences of his life, and w^hat he 
had seen in different countries. 

"What has put you in such good humour to-night, 
Signor Italiano V asked one. 

" Nothing but a good dinner and a good digestion," 
answered another. " It always affects the Signor wonder- 
fully." 

" Right, quite right," said the Italian ; " we have a 
proverb which I have seen also in the English : 'An over- 



A Melancholy Jacques. 207 

loaded stomach talks this planet into hell — a glass of 
wine can deify its devils.' " 

" Ah, now we understand the ghost stories," said 
Clements. 

" Messieurs,^'' said the Italian, " you get no ghost story 
out of me. You are a set of unbelievers ; I shall not 
give you a fresh opportunity to scoff." 

"Come, Clements, let us be off; we shall make nothing 
here to-night." 

" Stop* moment," said Vince|^t, who had just come in, 
" I have a letter from Howard, from whom we have not 
heard for an age. He is our melancholy Jacques, you 
know ; that is, on occasions when Howard affects the char- 
acter, because he thinks he writes well, and that it makes 
him in-ter-est-ing. Here is the letter, written 

'Under the shade of melancholy boughs 

It gives a pithy account of the New York atmosphere. 
What a fool he is for a fellow of sense ! Hear him :" 
and Vincent read from the letter: 

" ' You have no idea, my friend, of the insensate follies 
of a New York " season." The people are wild without 
being gay, and excited without being animated. They are 
extravagant without taste, and profuse without generosity. 
Imagine every thing that is wnnatural, and you shall not 
fail to get an idea of "society" in my native city.'" 



208 Romance of Student Life. 

" The fellow is in love with some pretty New Yorker," 
said Partridge. 

" Don't interrupt," cried Vincent ; " listen to what's 
coming. It's poetry, by Jupiter Ammon : 

* " There they are happiest, who dissenible best 
Their weariness ; and they the most polite, 
Who squander time and treasure with a smile, 
Though at their own destruction. She that asks 
Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all. 
And hates their coming. They (what can they less ?) 
Make just reprisal? ; and with cringe and shrug. 
And bow obsequious, hide their hate of her." 

Week after week we had in our own set one continual 
scene of bustle and bewilderment. Parties succeeded 
parties ; and dinners and suppers and dances made up the 
rest. Four brides caused all this tumult ; more, probably, 
than they ever can make again : unless, in the mysterious 
course of events, they should all die the same season, and 
within the same fortnight, and in the same city. Even 
then, methinks, the stir and noise would be nothing to what 
it has been. The friends doubtless would " sympathize," 
and perhaps some startled youth might mutter to himself 
as he passed along — 

" This looks not like a nuptial ;" 

but the current of oblivion would flow smoothly on and 
over them ; the summer's grass would grow green upon 



The Italian. 209 

their graves, and the wmter's snow heap forgetfuhiess upon 
their turf. — How are the Battzes ] Where's Milor Anglais ? 
Who knows any thing about any body 1 Send me the end 
of the segar that Alibaud left unsmoked, just as he was 
submitting to be guillotined ; I want to preserve it in a 
glass case. Do you know, that affair always puts me in 
mind of Barnardine : " Master Barnardine," says the clown, 
"you must rise and be hanged, Master Barnardine!" 
Whereto he replies, " Away, you rogue, away ; I am 
sleepy !" but the clown persists, " Pray, Master Barnar- 
dine, awake till you are executed, and sleep afterwards." 
Don't forget the stump of that segar. N. B. What 
about the compound fracture 1 did the lad recover ? If 

he didn't, C killed him ; I say he killed him. 

How is the roll-call ? Eemember me to the boys each 
and every. Adieu.' 

" Now," said V^incent, " were it not for his unbear- 
able affectation but he is absent; we won't make his 

ears burn. Let's drink his health." 

" And then leave me alone with the ' genius of the 
house,' I suppose," said the Italian. 

" Alone % there is your friend !" pointing to the Geno- 
ese, who was asleep on the couch. 

"Slumber is a temporary death: I am worse than 
alone in such a case." 

" Oh, aye ! but the ' genius of the house ;' what of her ? 



210 Romance of Student Life. 

We are to have a description one of these evenmgs, I 
suppose V 

" No, you are not ; at least, not till you will approach 
the subject with more reverence. But medical students 
and medical men are a set of materialists — a miserable 
set too. I pity the whole race ; and particularly because 
they are expected to do so much, and can really do 
so little. Voltaire, carrying out this idea, pronounced a 
physician to be an unfortunate gentleman who is called 
every day to perform a miracle — 'reconcile health with 
intemperance.' He was more charitable than Talleyrand, 
who always declined to recommend a cook or a medical 
man, because he did not wish to be held guilty of murder 
as an accessary before the fact !" 

" Hallo ! what is the matter with the Signor ? Allow 
me to feel your pulse !" and Vincent drew out his watch 
with a professional air, and commenced counting. 

" Signor Italiano^ you are very sick indeed ; judging 
from present appearances, I should say your life might 
reasonably be despaired of" 

" Have done with your nonsense," said the Italian. 
" You won't have me to practise it on much longer, 
however. We are off!" 

"Off! how is that?" cried several. 

" I am tired waiting for revolution in Europe : we are 
going to a land of freemen — to your country, Mr. Vincent 



The Italian. 211 

— THE United States of North America. I have looked 
at the signs of the times ; it is of no use for us to wait. 
I was here in '30. Blood was not poured out in vain then. 
It was but the first step ; since then it has been the half 
step backward. But it is coming — it is coming ! We 
shall be recalled from America years hence to fight the 
battle of freedom — perhaps in these very streets. Who 
knows f ' 

The Italian paused ; his fine countenance was lighted by 
a generous fire ; his eyes were steadily fixed in the 
distance, as if attempting to penetrate the future. I could 
not but say to myself, that there yet burned some of the 
spirit of ancient Rome in the breasts of those whom we 
are apt to call her degenerate sons. 

" Yes," continued the Italian, " w^e go to America. 
As pilgrims seek a shrine, so seek we. Once there, 
we shall breathe again with a sense of freedom, while 
the thought of home, when the waning day seeks repose 
in the Occident, will fill our hearts with a gentle sad- 
ness, instead of the bitterness we now feel. 

* Era gia I'ora che volge '1 disio, 
A' naviganti e'ntenerisce il cuore, 
Lo di ch' ban detto a' dolci amici addio, 
E che lo nuoYO peregrin d'amore 
Punge, se ode sqviilla di lontano, 
Che paja '1 giorno pianger che si muore.' " 



212 Romance of Student Life. 

The words of the Italian sensibly affected the whole 
party. I have before mentioned that no one appeared 
to know precisely about him or his companion; both 
were considerably older than any of us. As Louis 
Pliilippe was at that time very tolerant of refugees, 
Paris contained an unusual number of them ; and no 
one thought it best to ask questions. 

'■'■ Signor^^'' said Von Herberg, after a few minutes, 
in which we were all silent, " have you ever come to 
any different conclusion about what you beheld on the 
Boulevards one night of the Revolution ?" 

" I still hold to the very same ; my opinion has not 
changed in the slightest. The day will come." 

" What is it V whispered one. 

" I do not know," said another. 

" What were you speaking of, Von Herberg f 

" He speaks, Messieurs^'' said the Italian, emphatically, 
" of what I beheld on the evening of the last of the ' Three 
Days.' " 

"Whaf? whatr 

" You know at that time there was some hard fighting : 
the trees on many of the Boulevards were cut down, and 
barricades were made of them, with the aid of coaches and 
omnibuses, and other carriages. It happened frequently 
that the people had not time to carry away their dead; so 
they would deposit the bodies occasionally in a position 



A Strange Story. 213 

that they might neither be trampled on, nor passed by un- 
noticed when occasion should permit their being removed. 
I was going along the Boulevard du Temple the evemng in 
question. At the principal barricade an immense tree with 
large branches lay stretched entirely across the side-walk. 
As I endeavoured to work my way through, I encountered 
a man planted bolt upright against one of the limbs of 
the tree; a lantern was burning near, and cast its light 
across his features : a second glance discovered to me that 
he was dead. I had seen similar sights, and this did not 
startle me. I proceeded on my way. In half an-hour I 
came back, and passed the same spot. There were two 
men placed where I saw the one ; each was the exact 
counterpart of the other, in every particular ; just alike — 
exactly alike ! I halted so near that I could touch them. 
I ' shut my eyes and opened them again ; it made no dif- 
ference. I pinched myself, to be certain I was not in a 
trance; I soon satisfied myself on that point. Then I 
rubbed my eyes very briskly ; still there stood the tivo ! 
It was then, after every other trial had failed, that I put out 
my hand to touch the bodies. I extended it to the one 
nearest me, when suddenly the other raised its arm, and, 
with a menacing gesture, interposed its hand between me 
and the dead man. I was perfectly calm. Messieurs^ because 
I felt conscious of no ill : I deliberately dropped my hand, 
and at once the arm of the other assumed its original place. 



214 EoMANCE OF Student Life. 

I was determined to probe the matter. I stepped a little 
nearer, to take hold of the body which had made such a 
strange demonstration. I extended my hand so that it 
would rest on the shoulder of the other : it encountered 
7iothing ; but fell by its own weight quite heavily to my 
side. Still the appearance remained ; and after another 
look, I disengaged myself from the branches, and came 
away." 

" A very interesting case of optical illusion," said one. 

" Very," responded another. 

" Yes, indeed !" exclaimed a third, 

" Messieurs^'' said the Italian, warmly, " there was no 
illusion about it : I was as cool and as collected as 
I now am. I tell you I beheld the anima of the dead 
citizen. It was an omen that our cause — the sacred cause 
of Freedom — lived ! and so I hailed it ; and so I still haU 
it ! The day will come !" 

" Ah ! well," cried Vincent, " 1 don't pretend to judge 
of these things. Somehow, those who want to see ghosts, 
always can see ghosts ; and those who are unbelievers, as 
you say, are not troubled with them. For myself, I prefer 
not to be troubled. But what a break-up we shall have ! 
I go to New York next month. Clements, you are going 
to London % " 

"Yes, and shall take Partridge with me to 'walk' 
Guy's." 



The Dispersion. 215 

" Let us see," continued Vincent ; " Signor Italiano 
and the Genoese off too ! By the by. we must manage to 
go together. And two left yesterday : it will be a regular 
clearing out !" 

Von Herberg and I looked at each other. " We must 
stick together," I said. 

" We will !" 

In another month our whole society were scattered. 



216 Romance of Student Life. 



CHAPTEE X. 



NEW QUARTERS. 



The scene has changed. Franz von Herberg and 
myself occupy pleasant apartments in the rue de la 
Chaussee d'Antin ; quite tout en haut, to be sure, in 
order to give Fran2 a better arrangement for his canvass : 
yet the situation is for the time certainly a delightful one. 
Partridge and Clements are in London. The former is 
determined to compare practically the English and French 
methods of treatment. He writes me he is charmed with 
Astley Cooper, and that he likes Key. Clements is not 
satisfied quite. No Englishman ever admits that he is 
entirely pleased in his own country, and out of it, every 
thing is wrong. I do not mean this as applicable to my 
friend, for he is essentially a cosmopolite. 

I have become very much attached to Franz. He is 
a congenial companion ; a true artist ; and what is more, 
he is a German without being mystical. We are almost 
inseparable. 

A narrow balcony runs before our windows, just wide 



Our Opposite Neighbours. 217 

enough to admit a chair : here we sit and converse, or 
watch what is passing ; 

" And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low !" 

Sometimes I direct my attention to our neighbours 
opposite. Those directly in front are a comfortable- 
looking old couple, without " chick or child :" they spend 
nearly the entire day playing backgammon. They are 
playing m the morning as I take a look across after 
breakfast: they play during the day incessantly. Tlie 
old gentleman goes out about twelve ; he returns in 
two hours, and they commence playing again. After 
dinner both go out together; and when they come in 
they begin once more. So they have gone on for weeks. 
It makes me nervous. I have a restless, unconquer- 
able desire to rush over, seize board and dice and 
boxes, and toss them out of the window. Why ivonH 
they stop playing % Can such a sight be witnessed any 
where but in Paris % 

The rooms next to the backgammon players are 

occupied by two nice-lookmg grisettes. How much taste 

is displayed in the arrangement of their simple furniture ! 

Outside, on the ridge formed by the retreating roof, are 

displayed a row of flower-pots : I was about to say the 

plants are cultivated with great care, but nothing like 

care is manifested. They are looked after and cherished 
10 



218 Romance of Student Life. 

with the same tenderness one would wait upon some 
living thing. 

These girls are evidently sisters. They rise early, 
and before breakfast they come to their flowers, 

*' To visit how they prosper^ bud, and bloom." 

They talk to them — they caress them — they watch every 
bud ; they mourn if some noxious insect has, unperceived, 
committed any depredations. Occasionally a new plant 
is brought home, and then such an excitement is produced! 
I can easily imagine that these flowers grow the gladlier 
under such " fair tendance." After breakfast they put 
on their neat little caps, and go to their labours: they 
work al^ day, and come back at night as cheerful as 
crickets. 

On the other side of our players lives an old lady with 
an idiot son. He is groTvai up. He seems quite harmless. 
The poor woman is very devoted to him. In the morning 
she attends to his toilet, washes his face, combs his hair, 
and places his chair for him. Then she prepares his 
breakfast, and feeds him as she would an infant. He 
never shows any emotion, except to betray his satisfaction 
by a hideous grin, and his dislike by strange, unearthly ex- 
clamations. His mother loves him — loves this abortion ! 
She caresses him : I see her do so daily. Yes, that idiot 
is loved. He can return no affection : he can feel none. 



People of Fashion. 219 

Poor lad ! Poor woman ! Why do I say " poor lad !" 
" poor woman !" What right have I to say so ? God only 
knows whether it be so or not. God help them, and 
forgive me! 

One " flat" lower down, and I see a comfortable family 
who belong to the shopkeeping class, all of whom are 
turning their hands to something. How gayly they sally 
forth Sunday morning to mass ; and in the afternoon for 
an excursion in the gardens, or perhaps a little way 
out of town. 

Lower still, if I count correctly, au troisieme, I per- 
ceive very fine people — fashionable people — with ex- 
quisite furniture, mirrors, curtains, paintings. They live, 
one would suppose, expensively ; and yet every sous 
is calculated as closely and as systematically here as 
by their neighbours (out en hauf. Strange as it may 
seem, notwithstanding the elegance of the repast, which 
is daily served at five o'clock, I would lay an even 
wager that the unexpected presence of two friends at 
the dinner-table would endanger the sufficiency of the 
supply, and put the family to inconvenience. From high 
to low the French are the most economical people on the 
face of the earth. But this is not romance. 



" Franz," said I, one morning, as we were returning 



220 Romance of Student Life. 

from the inspection of one of David's paintings in a 
private collection which my com^Danion desired me to see, 
" Franz, you recollect you were trying to paint something, 
I do not know what, when we were in the rue Copeau, 
which you then found it impossible to finish. I have 
wanted very often to ask you what it was, and whether 
you have since completed it; pray tell me now." 

" Simi^ly this," said Von Herberg. " I was at one 
tune in the habit of attending service at the church 
JVotre Dame de Lorette. I was first attracted there by the 
music, and afterwards by the eloquence of a young man, 
w^ho was the only priest in Paris that I ever listened to 
with interest. One day, as the people were moving out of 
church, I saw a commotion near one of the side-chapels. 
I went to the spot. An old mendicant, who had for 
a long time been in the habit of frequenting the place, 
had just been discovered, leaning against the wall, in a 
kneeling posture, but quite in a lifeless state. 

"It seemed as if vitality were Imgering about him 
when I came up, for there remained on his features 
a certain living expression, worn doubtless during the 
last moments of existence. I cannot describe it to you. 
There was nothing repulsive — nothing disagreeable in 
it ; but such as you would imagine a weary wretch 
to exhibit when about to be freed from the load of 
life, and transported into those regions of bliss which 



A Serious Discussion. 221 

faith has made clear to liim. Ah ! if I could only 
depict that ! It was in vain. I tried, and tried agam, 
but could do nothing with it. By the way, do you 
not believe some agency might be introduced to bring 
back the escaped or escaping spirit ? May we not 
look for some wonders yet through the aids of elec- 
tricity f ' 

I shook my head. 

" Why not f continued Von Herberg. " Life has 
been compared to a candle. Now I cannot better illus- 
trate my meaning than by referring to it. Extinguish 
a candle, and you easily relight it, without any direct 
contact, • by applying a torch to the column of smoke 
which rises from it, even at a considerable distance. So 
it has seemed to me that vitality might, by electrical 
process, be brought back, if application should be made 
seasonably. And such appeared to be the situation of 
the beggar in the church of our Lady of Lorette when I 
first beheld him. — Strange that I coidd not catch that 
expression !" 

" There are many reasons," I replied, " why the 
analogy should fiil ; although I confess I am struck by 
the way you present it : but after all, disguise it as 
you will, it is no more nor less than rank materialism. 
I abominate it ! I shudder at it ! No man hath power 
to retain the spirit, much less reclaim it. Indeed, very 



222 Romance of Student Life. 

apropos of this are the lines of Sir Richard Blackmore ; 
(Von Herberg understood English well;) let me repeat 
them : 

* A flowing river, or a standing lake, 
May their dry banks and naked shores forsake ; 
Their waters may exhale and upward move, 
Their channel leave to roll in clouds above ; 
But the returning winter will restore 
What in the summer they had lost before : 
But if, O man, thy vital streams desert 
Their purple channels, and defraud the heart, 
With fresh recruits they ne'er vnW be supplied, 
Nor feel their leaping life's returning tide.' " 

" Those are very fine," said my friend ; " but I do not 
think they are directly applicable. Perhaps they are 
though. What a mystery is this dying. How on a 
sudden was our beggar promoted over all who surrounded 
him. What notice he attracted, too, for once ! Not a 
soul would have turned their head around for him while 
alive, yet how they all thronged around with their 
* sympathies' when he was dead. How disappointed 
might some have been if he had revived, and made 
personal application for relief. But here we are at 
home. Where shall we dine to-day 1" 

" What say you to Champaux V 

" So be it : let us go. — I shall never get that out of 
my brain till I can get it on canvass." 



Champaux's. 223 

"Perhaps you will be more successful now that I 
have roused you into a new excitement." 

" It may be so, but I do not want to be excited." 
"Dinner will prove a sedative." 
"So I hope. Come." 



224 Romance of Student Life, 



CHAPTER XI. 



THE CAFE. 



We were seated, leisurely discussing the merits of 
Champaux's carte^ when I heard a loud voice near us, 
which attracted our attention so much that we turned to 
listen to it. 

" Garsong, why the deuce don't you venez ici ?" 

The waiter came up. 

" Do you suppose I am going to manger such dish- 
water stuff? What do — a — a — s'appeller celaP 

" Potage^ Monsieur.'''' 

" Pottage ! Now do you a — a — compreiiez ? 1 don't 
want pottage — I want soup ! Do you hear that — a — a — 
entendez vous f 

" Oui, Monsieur.'''' 

" Then why the devil don't you make tracks for it, eh V 

The waiter stood in mute astonishment, with a perma- 
nent shrug on his left shoulder. 

" I say," continued the other, " what are you standing 
there for"? Where are the pizes 1" 



A Character. 225 

" Des jyois^ Monsieur T' said the poor gar^on^ catching 
at the word ; " oid^ Monsieur ;" and he was hurrying off. 

"Stop! a — a — arretezP'' said our character, catching 
the other by the arm ; " what are you after now ?" 

The gar con cast an expression of mute despair over the 
room. Happening to catch our eyes, (for I must say we 
were enjoying the scene immensely,) he assumed such an 
appealing look that I rose and stepped forward to act as 
interpreter, ^Yhen all at once I recognised in the individ- 
ual a good-natured, rattle-brained, go-ahead New Yorker, 
to whom I was introduced a few weeks previous, and who 
had come out on business to England, and was determined, 
as he said, to have his own fun, and see Paris, if he didn't 
know the language. He greeted me immediately. The 
usual congratulatory expressions passed, and T hastened to 
introduce Wilcox to Von Herberg, and transferred him 
without ceremony to our table. After that, I inquired 
how he had been since I last saw him ? 

" How have I been ? I have been starving — slowly, 
gradually starving to death ! Look at me !'' and Wilcox 
put his hand over his large, fat face, and across his stout 
arms. " Yes ; ever since I have come to this infernal 
place, I have been trying to get one substantial meal of 
victuals; and I tell you I can't do it!" 

Here the garpon, who had taken the opportunity to 
absent himself as soon as he saw us engage in conversa- 

10* 



226 Rom 



A N C E OF 



tion, returned with the plate of peas which our friend 
had ordered. 

" There !" exclaimed Wilcox, " do you see that ? This 
is what they call a plate of peas — plate pizes, I suppose 
I should say. Now look at them. Do you see" — taking 
up a large table-spoon — " I can put the whole ' plate' in 
this spoon and swallow them at one mouthful. Here, 
garsong, bring me a plate pizes, American — large — gros^ 
comme ga. By George, 1 am getting desperate. 1 want 
something to eat! And there's something else I want; 
I want a bottle of Scotch ale. I would give this minute a 
guinea for a bottle of Scotch ale — a good, stiff, quart 
bottle of Scotch ale. Can it be got in this city *?" 

" Yes ; I will give you the direction where you can 
have the genuine article." 

"Then I am off!" — seizing his hat — "but stop; now 
you are here I will make one more effort for something 
to eat. No Scotch here, I suppose?" 

I shook my head, while Von Herberg suggested that 
he could order a bottle of beer. 

" No you don't !" exclaimed Wilcox. " I want none 
of that wishy-washy stuff. I thought yesterday I had 
found something which would go to the right spot. I 
called on the ale — the boy brought me a great big bottle, 
comme ca, (lifting up his hands,) which held about two 
quarts. I began to lick my lips over it. The cork was 



New Method of Dining. 227 

drawn — my tumbler filled. I was thirsty; understand 
that. I fixed my eyes on the garsong, and I began to 
drink. The dog looked guilty, and was about to sneak 
away. I gulped two swallows before I knew what I 
was doing. I set down the glass. ' Boy !' I shouted, for 
I was too much excited to speak French — ' boy ! what's 
this you have been giving me V And what do you think 
it was V said Wilcox — " for the poor devil was too fright- 
ened to answer me — what do you think it was 1" 

"Beer, I suppose." 

" Beer ? I should call it a compound of water and 
molasses kept just long enough to be a little sour. 
How much do you suppose they charged me for it — 
two quarts at least 1 I will tell you — ten cents ^ ha, ha, 
ha ! ten cents, as I am a live man, ha, ha, ha ! I put 
up the money, and sloped — glad to get off* so. But what 
are you eating, eh ? I see — a mutton-chop. Speaking of 
eating, some lads I fell in with here said they would let 
me into the secret of dining well, and a fanciful way of 
getting a dinner it is. The party that came over with 
me all manage it that fashion, and it's after this style. 
The plan is for five to go together and order dinner 
for three. In this way they say they get a variety. 
Egad, I am thinking I could better the system — let 
every man go by himself and order for Jive. That 
is a good plan, and it has just struck me — I'll carry 



228 Romance of Student Life. 

it out. Garsong ! you little vagabond, come here — 
a — a — desservir — a — a — curse the pottage — off with it ; 
that's plain American. Now, let us see : roast beef — no 
go ; beef-steak — can't cook it ; mutton-chops — first rate, 
if I could only have enough of theJn. Just tell this 
fellow to bring mutton-chops for five and potatoes to 
match." 

I looked incredulous. " Upon my word I mean it. 
I pledge you my honour I am dying from hunger ! 
Tell him to be in a hurry." 

As Wilcox was obstinately set on having his way, 
I gave the order with an explanation, to the gar con ^ that 
our friend was a mad wag who wanted to indulge in 
his joke. The iwtage was removed, and the chops and 
potatoes actually served, and, what is more, were eaten. 
Badinage apart, I really believe that Wilcox was not 
only hungry, but that he had really suflTered from the 
manner he had been treated to French dishes. 

"Have you been in Paris the whole time since I 
met youf 

" No," said Wilcox, emphatically ; " and that's what 
I want to tell you about — I am goi:ig to make a grand 
business of it. I undertook to go to the south of 
France, for I didn't care about being home before 
cold weather, and as I was improving so much in 
French, I thought I would venture it. I got on well 



Wilcox on his Travels. 229 

enough to Lyons, for there was an acqiiamtance of 
mine going there, who knew the country well. 

" The morning after T reached Lyons, I started for 
Marseilles, when, about half way, we came to a small, 
dirty town, with a narrow stone gateway for an entrance. 
I cannot remember the name of the place ; I don't want 
to remember it ; indeed, I don't believe I ever knew. 
Well, we halted at the gate. Our passports were called 
for and taken from us as usual, and we cracked into a 
little tavern and stopped. I thought at the time one 
of the guards eyed me suspiciously. Presently a soldier 
came up to me. He could speak English a little. 

" ' Monsieur is an Englishman,' he said. 

" I shook my head. ' American,' says I. ' 

" At that he shrugged his shoulders and said, ' Mon- 
sieur cannot proceed.' 

« ' Why not V 

" ' Passport has not the vise of the Prefecture of 
Police at Paris. Monsieur must remain here.' 

" A pretty muss I was in, to be sure ; but that was 
not the worst of it. It turned out that an Englishman 
had, a little before, left Paris, who was accused of a trea^ 
sonable correspondence with some of the cursed factions 
opposed to the government, and it became important to 
arrest him. A description of his person had been sent 
all over the country, and, what was deucedly unlucky, it 



230 Romance of Student Life. 

answered almost precisely to me. Of course I pro- 
tested in the most vigorous terms that mortal man could 
invent. If you understand any thing about a Frenchman, 
you should know that the more importunate you are, 
the more dogged is he. The more excited you become, 
the more indifferent he grows. I could not move the 
rascal. He referred me to the mayor ; and, guarded 
like a felon, I was introduced to that dignitary. Of 
course he was on the alert for a criminal ; and, once 
more of course, I was the criminal. I argued, I entreated, 
I explamed, I insisted. It was of no use. 'American 
citizen' had no terror for Monsieur le Maire. I wanted 
to send to our Consul at Marseilles. The ignorant, 
stubborn old fool said it was altogether unnecessary. 
It was a very simple business. My passport was to 
go back to Paris, and I was to go to the town jail, 
or whatever you call it. If the Prefecture of Police 
said 'all right,' and affixed his vise, then all right it 
would be; otherwise, I was certainly the 'Englishman,' 
no matter what the American Consul said on the 
subject. 

"'But,' urged I, endeavouring to keep my temper, 
* suppose my passport should happen to come back 
" all right," what excuse would you have for treating 
me in this outrageous manner'?' 

" I was answered by a shrug, and a cursed impu- 



Wilcox in Trouble. 231 

dent, incredulous gesture, but not a word would the 
old devil say. I tried him again and again ; he 
grew worse and worse, until he ceased to notice me 
at all. 

" The result was, I was marched off to the jail — 
a most dirty old building, with a heavy stone archway, 
over which were inscribed certain words which I sha'n't 
soon forget. I am a pretty good French scholar — you 
needn't smile — and it didn't take me long to read them, 
and I believe the malicious puppies halted on purpose so 
that I should. I said I never should forget the words. 
No more shall I; but, for fear I might, I took occasion 
to put them down among my memorandums." Wilcox 
pulled out of his pocket a small note-book, opened it, 
and, putting his finger upon a line he had pencilled, said, 
" There you have it." 

We both read aloud in the same breath, 
"/ci on se repent, mais il est trop tard i'"' 
And both of us burst into a laugh, despite the 
wanton lack of sympathy which it manifested. 

" Gentlemen," continued Wilcox, " it was no laughing 
matter, let me tell you that. After I had spelled it 
out, my teeth began to chatter, for I did not know 
what these cannibals were going to do with me. Well, 
I was marched into a narrow hall, from each side 
of which doors opened upon loathsome cells, and into 



232 Romance of Student Life. 

one of these 1 was thrust. I believe I began some 
hideous lamentations, for a horrible-looking wretch ap- 
proached me from one corner of the cell — he was my 
messmate, you understand — and in very tolerable En- 
glish endeavoured to console me. ' A cove must expect 
to be lodged once in a while ; I must put a good 
face on the business. Keep quiet, take it easy, never 
say die — it might have been worse.' 

" I sat down on the miserable boards where I was 
to lie, and which were covered with a single blanket, 
and undertook to explain to the fellow that I was no 
criminal, but was most unjustly and unwarrantably in- 
carcerated. 

" ' Oh, certainly, of course ; but you need not be 
afraid of me — I never peaches.' 

" At that instant I started to my feet as if I were 
shot, and gave a bound that sent my head against 
the top of the cell ; then I commenced pulling at my 
clothes. 

'"What is the matter with the poor hojV said 
my vagabond, in a comforting way. ' It's nothing but 
the fleas, do you see. After you have been here a while 
you'll get used to them.' 

" I yelled with vexation : I wanted to beat my head 
to pieces against the door, but at last I flung myself 
in despair on the loathsome bench, and gave myself up 



Meets with Fresh Misfortunes. 233 

soul and body to the fleas : as somebody once said, if 
they had been unanimous, they would have lifted me out 
of bed. I expected to die there ; I sometimes think I 
did die, and have not come to life again. 

" On the third day I got a request forwarded to the 
mayor demanding an interview : much to my suq3rise he 
came to me, was tolerably civil, but perfectly unmove- 
able on the subject of setting me at liberty. He had 
sent my passport to Paris, and in due time the case 
would be attended to, and the old villain made me a 
low bow and took himself off. 

" On the same day my vagabond messmate was set 
at liberty, and I prepared a short note addressed 
to Americans, Englishmen, and to the American Consul, 
which the scamp promised to deliver to some proper 
person, if he had to walk all the way to Marseilles 
to do it. 

" After he left I was in better spirits — ^judge of my 
astonishment, however, when at night jMonsieur Tonson 
was brought back, having been caught in attempting to 
commit some petty theft the moment he turned his 
back on the town. He was searched, and my letter 
was found on him, and as it spoke of Monsieur le Maire 
as an unmitigated ass, villain, fool, scoundrel, and what 
not, I expected to be summarily dealt with. Here I 
was mistaken — the old donkey came to the jail, brought 



234 Romance of Student Life. 

me my letter, and, without a word of comment, marched 
off. Luckily, he was too firmly intrenched in his own 
conceit to be moved by it. 

" But I was in luck after all. A rumour of the 
matter found its way among the passengers of the next 
diligence. There was one genuine Yankee among them. 
— ' I'll stand by that chap as long as / live ' — he could 
speak French like a native — he insisted on visiting me. 
I gave him the whole story. He went to the magis- 
trate, declared to him that he knew me, and all that 
sort of thing, and demanded my liberty. Although 
this shook the old fellow's faith in my being the 
Englishman, he would not liberate me, but I got a 
better room forthwith, and was treated with some 
decency. 

" My friend hurried on to Paris, had the matter over- 
hauled forthwith — it would have taken a month as it 
was going on — and in three or four days more I was 
released. Now, what do you think I did % I had vowed 
vengeance on the mayor, and determined to take the 
first instalment out in heavy curses over his head and 
shoulders, well laid on. But the old fellow came to 
me, and in measured terms tendered his regret at 
what had occurred, as if it was entirely a matter of 
necessity, and at the same time asked me to dine with 
him, with such profound gravity, that I was completely 



Wilcox in Luck at Last. 235 

upset. I couldn't stand the dining. I declined — but 
how could I swear at him after thaf? 

"I took the next diligence for Paris, and have since 
my return been, as I told you, fairly wasting away 
under the effects of starvation. I have eaten something 
now, I'll go and get the ale, and I am thinking to- 
morrow I will vamose. Call on me, will you, when 
you come to New Yorkf 

We separated. I have never seen this curious fellow 
since. He went, I understood, shortly after to South 
America, and that's the last I ever heard of him. 



As Von Herberg and I were returning from the 
cafe to our lodgings, we saw preparations for a funeral 
before one of the finest houses. My friend took my 
arm, and we stepped up the staircase and into the 
room where the dead lay. There was already a good 
many in the apartment. The coffin v/as placed in the 
centre, and immense wax candles were ranged around 
it, thro whig their rays over the darkened room. The 
splendid mirrors were covered, so as not to reflect 
the countenance of the deceased, and so shock those 
present. Magnificent bouquets, purchased at a large 
expense, were laid on the richly ornamented coffin, but 
I saw no simple flowers strewed over it; indeed, every 



236 EoMANCE OF Student Life. 

thing had reference to ostentation and display. Not 
one of the proprieties of a funeral were omitted ; and, 
that the departed might be properly assoiled, an unusual 
number of priests were in attendance. Were it not 
that the man was dead^ the spectacle would have been 
rather an agreeable one than otherwise. Those in the 
room were becomingly ti'iste, while nobody seemed to 
mourn. 

We contemplated the scene for a while, then descended 
to the street again. 

" What think you of this idea of endeavouring to 
present death in a less formidable shape f 

" I don't believe in it," answered my friend. " Death 
is a terrible event, and it ought to be so regarded by 
us. Any attempt to dilute the effect produced on us 
by the great Destroyer seems to me unnatural in the 
extreme. Every tiling here is overwrought. Affection 
may dictate the planting of a flower on the grave of 
those we love, or scattering fresh-gathered blossoms over 
it; but when shops are erected to manufacture these 
tokens of remembrance, when one pays for the gathering 
and the arranging of the garlands, — nay, when the very 
flowers of which they are composed are artificial, — I con- 
sider it a sacrilegious mockery of real grief, and of the 
feelino-s of the sincere mourner." 

"I think so." 



Death — Funerals. 237 

" Strange," continued Von Herberg, " that even at the 
last moment — in death itself — every thing is done that 
can be done to relieve against the mdignity of dying. 
Gorgeous funerals, costly grave-clothes, magnificent monu- 
ments ; in every thing the artificial for the natural. What 
was first a mark of real affliction has come to take 
its place altogether. A righteous retribution, when we 
attempt to give form and substance to feelings which 
are at once destroyed by exposure and parade." 

The subject was not a cheerful one, and I did not 
encourage Von Herberg to pursue it ; for he was always 
too much inclined to fall into a melancholy mood. 

We had wandered in the direction of the Tuilleries, 
and were brought back to pleasing visions of this world 
by the clear, merry laughter of the children, who were 
running and skipping from place to place in all the 
exuberance of young life. 



238 Romance of Student Life. 



CHAPTER XII, 



ALMOST AT THE END, 



Strange to say, we soon tired of the fashionable part 
of Paris, and had we purposed to remain for a much 
longer period, I do think we should have sought our 
old quarters. As it was, after spendmg a few weeks 
in looking at all that was worthy of observation, as 
well in the streets as out of them, we undertook several 
short excursions into the surrounding country, sufficiently 
far from Paris to be out of the reach of its immediate 
influence. These excursions we enjoyed exceedingly ; I 
will, however, give an account of but one of them. As 
it is impossible to prejudge the effect of a work upon 
the reader, I have thought it would be judicious to 
bring my volume to a close before it reached a length 
which should make it particularly ponderous if it met 
with disfavour ; while, on the other hand, should it prove 
acceptable to any, I shall take leave of such while the 
impression is still an agreeable one. 



We Prepare to Leave Paris. 239 

The autumn had come round again. Partridge, 
having finished his prescribed course in London, now 
rejoined us. We were to spend the winter in Germany. 
In the spring Partridge was to return to America, and 
locate in Philadelphia. — Why may I not, even here, pay 
a passing tribute to his subsequent career. Thank God, 
he still lives, enjoying, as a practising physician, the 
reward of his patient, scrutinizing investigations in almost 
every hospital in Europe — an old and long-tried and 
attached friend. 

We were preparing for our departure. While Part- 
ridge was out attending to some commissions. Von 
Herberg brought into my room a picture, which he 
had just finished. He had purposely kept it out of 
sight till it was completed, and now it stood on the 
table perfect — absolutely perfect. 

At this moment Partridge came in. He was attracted 
at once by the painting. He wanted to know all about it. 
There was some incident connected with it — he knew 
there was. 

I was, however, in no haste to explain. I remembered 
the summary way I was dragged from Calais when I 
was so desirous of loitering on the road, so I took the 
opportunity of teasing my friend for a few minutes before 
satisfying his curiosity. 

There was nothing peculiar about it — quite a fancy-piece. 



240 Romance of Student Life. 

"No such thing." 

" But, my dear fellow," I continued, " why are you 
so particularly curious about this little painting ] I do 
not see any thing to justify your stubborn assertion that 
it is not a fancy-sketch, and that there must be some 
story connected with it. With what shrewd apprecia- 
tion you take in, the whole group ! A vine-growing 
country, for the vmeyards extend in every direction, 
almost surrounding the old chapel, over whose entrance 
is carved in wood an image of the patron saint. The 
doors are open, and around them still linger two or three 
old people and a few children, while the solitary figure 
on this side, you maintain, bears a positive unmistakable 
likeness to me ! How ridiculous this idet of yours : 
really, you are carrying your discrimination quite too 
far. You will not give it up % Ah, the picture again 
diverts you. The foreground embraces a gay company ; 
evidently a wedding-party ; rustical, to be sure, but so 
much the more charming. How very joyous seems the 



" ' Fancy-piece' — nonsense !" interrupted Partridge. 
" Look at the bride : no painter nowadays could limn 
that face and form from his imagination, nor pourtray 
the blissful satisfaction which beams in the manly coun- 
tenance of the groom. There is an evident truthfulness 
in the grouping, in the portraits, in the expression of each 



Partridge is Inquisitive. 241 

person, in the careful attention paid to details, which 
cannot deceive me. The story — the story — let us have 
that!" 

"Positively there is none. Still, if affairs had taken 
another turn — thank God they did not ; but as it is, there 
is no tale of blasted hopes nor of broken hearts, nor 
of untimely sorrows which are only quenched in death. 
Nothing of these. You are still not satisfied ? You ask 
for the merest explanation of the scene ; that will content 
you. Well, perhaps for once I may act the hero ; you 
have all told your stories ; why may not I tell mine 1 Sit 
down, my dear boy — have patience, Franz. Silence ! I 
am going to begin. 

€liB ltnrt[ nf Mm Infurrt. 

Among the numerous Passages Mhich so frequently 
connect one street with another in the finer parts of Paris, 
and which, as you know^, are adorned on each side with 
exquisite little shops, containing every thing in the way 
of vendibles that can be made attractive, the Passage des 
Panoramas, Franz and I being judges, is the one most 
attractive, as well as most frequented, not only by the 
fashionables of the city, but by the strangers who con- 
gregate here. The significant words, ^'' JEngJish spoken,^'' 
placarded here and there, draw to the spot many of 

11 



242 Romance of Student Life. 

the subjects of la perfide Albion, who, while they will 
not condescend to learn the "miserable language," can 
scarcely do without French gloves and French shoes, 
and, I might add, French every thing. Now, my friend, 
I do not affirm that the English tongue is spoken in all 
its purity at the places where this magic sign is ex- 
hibited; on the contrary, I am sorry to bear witness 
that often it is positively a false pretence, where, for 
example, the speaking of English is confined to "What 
you want, sir?" which being delivered, the pretty gri- 
sette trusts entirely to her ready wit in interpreting looks 
and gestures, and to her power to interest the starched, 
high-collared, precise, and generally verdant John. As 
I have always adhered to the plan we laid down when 
we first came to Paris, I abstained from taking ad- 
vantage of these little helps to the English purchaser, 
especially as by so doing I obtained what I wanted at 
half the price which had to be paid where the article 
was served in our vernacular. However, on one occasion, 
I broke over this sensible regulation. I went out one 
morning by myself, leaving Franz employed at his easel. 
Happening to stroll through the aforesaid Passage, I ob- 
served, in one of the finest boutiques, the loveliest creature, 
it seemed to me, I ever beheld. Do not suppose this was 
alone sufficient to draw me in. It is an every-day occur- 
rence, as you well know, this chancing on the " most beau- 



Marie Laforet. 243 

tiful." But, in the first place, the young girl was evidently 
fresjh from the country. She knew nothing of her present 
occupation ; she was not awkward, she could not be awk- 
ward, yet she did not seem at home in her new Parisian 
costume. She looked melancholy ; in short, I was touched 
by her appearance. " Another victim !" I said to myself; 
how shocking to contemplate this poor innocent girl, so 
simple of heart, so modest, so beautiful, and think how 
soon she will be changed into a Parisienne.'''' I tried to 
throw off the idea : " it was but the old story ; the country 
must supply the town ; unfortunate, but necessary, and so 
forth: this young person appears melancholy, but it is 
only la maladie du pays ; she will soon be happy enough. 
Madame the manager treats her considerately ; she is kind 
to her ; a few days, and she will have her smiles again." 
But days not a few passed, and no smile did I see. 
True, she was becoming acquainted with her business ; 
she had learned to serve those who came with readi- 
ness ; she seemed to have made rapid progress in learning 
what she had to do : but no smile, no " pleased alacrity," 
no quickening of the eye, no change of expression when 
the usual compliment was rendered by gay youth or 
handsome cavalier. The face was growing longer — 
perhaps more strictly beautiful ; the cheek was losing 
its rose ; the eyes appeared deeper, more subdued and 
thoughtful ; indeed, the sight of her (I hardly know 



244 Romance of Student Life. 

why, but 1 found myself passing the place daily) began 
to afflict me. Meanwhile, young men were crowding the 
boutique ; for the singular beauty of the " charming 
grisette," her immobility, and the mystery which these 
created, became topics of conversation among the young 
Parisian " liotis,''^ as well as with a great many strangers. 
At this shop, I should have said, were exposed the words, 
^^ Unglish siioken ;''^ but the placard had only lately been 
posted, and I wondered who was the proficient in our 
unaccommodating tongue. So one morning, quite early, 
that I might have the fewer interruptions, I sauntered 
leisurely into the place, and inquired of the first one T 
saw, if she could speak English.' " What you please 
to want, sir?" said the madame, coming up to me, and 
articulating with difficulty. I asked for some article 
not usually demanded, in order to test her knowledge. 
She hesitated, beckoned my heroine to her, and, leaving 
me in her charge, turned to serve a new-comer. I 
repeated my request in English, but did not attempt to 
explain by look or motion. The poor girl tried hard 
to divine what I would have; she bent forward, and 
I again repeated. It w^as interesting to observe how 
her natural intelligence strove to interpret what I was 
saying ; the eyes grew full of meaning, and the counte- 
nance was roused from its repose ; but it would not do. 
1 had carefully avoided using any ordinary phrase; and 



Marie L a f o r e t . 245 

as I stood still and spoke merely, it was no wonder 
that one who knew not a syllable of the language 
should fail to understand me. '-'•Pardon^'' I said; "I 
thought some person here — (pointing to the placard) — 
spoke English." The girl turned with a distressed look 
to the madame, but she was busily engaged with her cus- 
tomer. Other grisettes there were, but my attendant 
made no appeal to them. "J/b«siewr," she finally said, 
"ye craius qii'on ixivle bieii mal VAnglais." This was 
uttered in a serious tone, and with an entire absence of 
pleasantry. Yet with what a graceful smile an ordinary 
French shop-girl would have said the same words, and 
have made you quite satisfied to remain and purchase 
whatever she chose to offer. I partly turned as if to 
depart, although I had no such intention, when the young 
girl placed her hand on a package of gloves that lay 
on the case, and looked at me inquiringly. I could 
perceive this was, on her part, an act of mere duty, 
lest the business of her employer should seem neglected. 
I said nothing, but allowed her to select me a pair. 
As I was engaged in fitting them, I cast a glance at 
her. The look she gave me in return was so sad, so 
heavy-hearted, so desolate, that I could not avoid saying 
to her in her ow^n tongue, "Jow see?n very unhapinj^ 
A flush passed across her face, a tear forced its way 
into her eyes, and, before she could prevent it, dropped 



246 Romance of Student Life. 

on her cheeks and rolled down her face. Her hand- 
kerchief was quickly applied, and she was calm and 
imperturbable as before. My tone was one not of gal- 
lantry, but of kindness, and it had taken her by surprise. 
Yet she said nothing — not a word ; but she looked at 
me a moment intently, as if to question my motive in 
speaking to her; but whether she was satisfied of it or 
not, I could not tell. 

I did not seek to draw her into conversation, but 
took my leave as soon as I had paid for my purchase. 
I need not detail to you, my dear Partridge, how I 
finally succeeded in obtaining the confidence of Marie 
Laforet — for that was her name — and which put me in 
possession of her simple history. The young creature 
saw that I was painfully interested for her ; besides, 
she knew not a soul in Paris to whom she could trust 
her sorrows. It seemed as if she would have died, 
could she not have spoken ; and yet I fear you will be 
disappointed when I tell you there was nothing extra- 
ordinary in her story. No tale of a faithless lover or 
of cruel parents, of afflictions, or of harsh treatment by 
friends, or of any thing melo-dramatic. She informed me 
that she was a native of Burgundy, in the department 
of the Saone and Loire, and lived near the little town 
of Charolles with her mother, who owned a small farm 
of ten or fifteen acres, nearly all of which was vineyard. 



Marie Laforet. 247 

The adjoining plot was occupied by Maurice Foligny 
and his mother, who were their nearest neighbours. 
Maurice was two-and-twenty, and Marie was his sweet- 
heart. Their marriage had long been considered a settled 
affair, not only between the lovers, but by the old people 
themselves. In short, it was to take place at the coming 
vintage. During the spring, Marie's mother received a 
visit from an only sister who had gone to Paris in her 
youth, married a respectable shopkeeper, and succeeded, 
on his death, to his establishment. What had sent her 
so far away into the Departments to look up her sister 
whom she had not seen for twenty-five years, was 
difficult to imagine. Perhaps she felt a pride in dis- 
playing herself and her finery to her only surviving 
relative, and in acquainting her with the independent 
position she now held at the head of one of the hand- 
somest shops in Paris ; perhaps the motive might be 
attributed to that instinctive longing for one's kindred 
which steals over us afler we have passed the boundary 
of middle life, gathering strength year by year, until 
with the aged it becomes engrossing, and at times almost 
unendurable. However this may be, Madame Duchamp 
— so she was designated — actually arrived and took up 
her quarters at the little farmhouse. Nothing was now 
heard of but Paris, Paris, Paris! No other place in 
the universe could compare with it. Every thing out of 



248 Romance of Student Life. 

it was actually barbarous. Marie, to be sure, had a 
sweet face, w^as well-shaped, yet what a fright she was 
when disfigured by that outre dress ! and when poor 
Maurice ventured into the presence of ISIadame, he was 
treated to such a frigid reception, that he never could 
be persuaded to come again ; and Marie herself was 
overwhelmed by a shower of ridicule respecting the 
appearance of her lover. To shorten the tale, IMadam.e 
Duchamp finally prevailed on her weak-minded sister, 
despite the entreaties and protestations both of Marie 
and Maurice, to send her daughter to Paris, that she 
might become a lady under the care and supervision of 
her experienced aunt. The troth of the young people 
was by no means broken ; the shrewd Madame thought 
this to be quite unnecessary. She supposed Marie to be 
like most young girls, and depended on her forgetting 
her lover in a week after she should arrive in Paris, 
calculating the while on profiting largely by increased 
sales in consequence of having so beautiful a person in 
attendance. At the same time, her intentions were per- 
haps well meant; for she expected, without doubt, that 
her niece should succeed to her business, and inherit 
what she possessed. Meanwhile, poor Marie became 
utterly wretched ; as I have described to you, she seemed 
slowly to wither away. She had been four months in 
Paris; she had not heard from Maurice, nor from her 



Marie Laforet. 249 

mother, except through Madame^ and when she made 
these disclosures to me, was ready to sink into absolute 
despair. Poor, forlorn thing that she was ! I went home 
revolving the matter in my mind. What was to be 
done ? What could I &o1 I finally broke the subject 
to our friend Franz here : strange to say, up to this 
time I had kept the aflair quite to myself Now I 
wanted some one to consult with, and I knew Franz 
would appreciate the interest I took in the business. 
The result was, that we determined to make an incursion 
into Burgundy, work our way quite carelessly into the 
neighbourhood of Marie's home, and inspect the situation 
of things. You laugh, my dear boy, at this adventure — 
I know you do ; you call it Quixotic. I cannot help it. 
I never commenced a journey with a more earnest pur- 
pose or a more cheerful heart ; and if there was a 
sprinkling of romance in it, should it detract fiom the 
value of the object which we sought to compass ? 
Obtaining from Marie such information as would enable 
us to find the desired locality without hinting the reason 
for the inquiry, my friend and I set off. It w^as not yet 
the season of the vintage, but the vine with its rich clus- 
ters already exhibited a luxuriant picture. We passed 
rapidly south, and at length reached Charolles. Here 
our reconnoisance commenced. We had no difficulty in 

finding the cottage of the Widow Laforet ; and one after- 

11- 



250 Romance of Student Life. 

noon, just at sunset, we entered her dwelling and asked 
for a draught of wine. I fancied there was an air of 
grief and of loneliness m her manner quite unnatural. 
She desired us to be seated, and provided for us the best 
her cottage afforded. Franz undertook to explain our 
movements. We were from Paris, he said, and were 
making a pleasure tour through this delightful part of 
France. At the mention of Paris, the Widow started, 
and her interest in what my friend was saying evidently 
increased. 

" From Paris !" she exclaimed. " Then you must 
know my Marie!" 

I could not help smiling at the poor woman's sim- 
plicity, but Franz preserved his gravity, and replied : 
" Perhaps — with whom does she live ]" 

" Ah !" responded the Widow Laforet, " you must 
have seen her ; she is with Madame Duchamp ; every 
body knows Madame.'''' 

"What!" demanded my friend, "Madame Duchamp, 
who keeps a shop in the Passage des Panoramas .^" 

" The very same, sir." 

" And what did you say was the name of your 
daughter — Madame has several young girls with her?" 

" Marie, sir : indeed, you could not mistake my 
Marie. You would know her among a thousand." 

" She nmst mean Marie Laforet," said Franz, turning 



Marie Laforet. 251 

to me with an air of indifference, as he proceeded to 
light his meerschaum. 

" Ah, mon Dieu /" ciied the poor widow ; " it is, 
indeed, my own petite Marie. I was certain you knew 
her. Pray tell me all you can about her. She must 
be so happy in beautiful Paris, with every thmg to delight 
her." 

" I doubt if it is the same person," said Franz, stiffly. 

" But I tell you that it is," said the other, with 
eagerness ; " therefore go on ; pray go on, sir." 

"You will please describe your daughter," said my 
inexorable friend. 

"To be sure. A fine shape, just my height; face 
round, fresh, with roses on her cheeks ; fair skin ; eyes 
— ah ! so fine, so full, so gentle, so brown ; hair, a 
chestnut ; and her whole " 

" Not the same person," said Franz, again turning to 
me, and giving a puff of his meerschaum. 

"But it is — I know that it is!" cried the Widow ; 
there cannot be two Marie Laforets with my sister. Ah ! 
I have forgotten : Marie is so much altered, so much 
improved in every way, that even her mother cannot 
describe her correctly. Just as my sister promised 
me — the dear, good one ! But you will tell me how 
she looks now, just to please a foolish old woman — I 
know you will, sir." 



252 Romance of Student Life. 

" 1 doubt if it can be your daughter," answered Franz. 
"The Marie Laforet whom I have seen is, to be sure, 
about your height, and has chestnut hair and brown 
eyes ; but her form seems to be wasted ; her face is 
very pale and thm ; her cheeks are colourless. Oh, no ! 
it is not your little Marie;" and Franz drew some fresh 
tobacco from his pouch. 

The Widow burst into tears. A vision of the true 
state of things passed over her. 

It was now my turn. "I am sure," said I, "that 
the Marie whom we know is the daughter of our enter- 
tainer ; the description agrees in every thing except in 
that wherein young people who are unhappy are most 
liable to change. It is true, that her cheeks are pale 
and hollow, and that she seems to be declining in health ; 
otherwise it answers very well, depend upon it. My 
good woman," I continued, with severity, " you should 
see to your child." 

" And you, too, know her !" said the Widow Laforet, 
not heeding my reproach, and looking up through her 
tears ; " and you say she is miserable ? Yes, miserable 
she must be — my own darling, precious Marie ! Why 
did I trust her away from me ? My sister should have 
told me of this. I suppose she hoped there would be a 
change for the better. Alas ! I have not had a happy 
> i^iiient since she left me. Ah, what will poor Maurice 



Marie Laforet. 253 

say?" — and she continued her lamentations for several 
minutes. 

"And who is Maurice?" inquired Franz. 

"Maurice, sir, is a worthy lad, who is betrothed to 
my ]\Iarie. They w^ere to be married the coming month ; 
but this visit of my sister — alas ! alas ! it has ruined us 
all." 

" And Maurice," said I ; " how does he bear Marie's 
absence ?" 

" Indeed, sir, worse than any of us. Not a word has 
he heard from her, although he has sent her a great 
many letters ; but he does not blame Marie, not he : — 
yet he does nothing but curse Madame Duchamp — God 
forgive him ! — from one wreck's end to another. He now 
declares that as soon as the vintage is gathered he will 
go to Paris, Ah ! the vintage this year will be so sad, 
when we were promising ourselves so much pleasure !" 

" And why should you not have it ?" said Franz 
abruptly, starting to his feet, and looking the Widow 
Laforet full in the face. " What is there to prevent 
you sending to Paris for Marie, and celebrating her 
nuptials with Maurice at the very time agreed upon?" 

" But my sister," interposed the poor woman, timidly, 

'"'■ Diahle P'' growled Franz ; "would you sacrifice your 
own flesh and blood, body and soul, for fear of giving 
offence to " 



254 KoMANCE OF Student Life. 

The sentence was cut short in an uncouth German 
guttural, which I should not care to have translated. 

" But what shall I do 1" continued the Widow : " how 
shall I manage it ? I know nothing of the ways of the 
strange folks in Paris, and if I sent for Marie, my sister 
would not let her go, for she has been at large charges 
for her journey, and for dresses, and I know not for 
what else. Ah, I fear it cannot be ; yet what will be- 
come of thee, ma petite .^" And again she wept. 

It was now evenmg, and we were urged to spend 
the night at the cottage. Franz shook his head, spoke 
of walking on to Charolles, but I overruled him, and 
he accepted the proffered hospitality. We were served 
with supper, and the good dame plucked for us, from 
her early fruitage, clusters of delicious grapes. I had 
sustained my part thus far tolerably well, but my heart 
was ready to burst at the sight of this poor woman 
attempting to be cheerful while she prepared our en- 
tertainment. As for our friend, I could not too much 
admire the admirable manner with which he had man- 
aged the interview. In the course of the evening I 
undertook to explain to the Widow Laforet the dangers 
of a life in Paris to a young girl situated like Marie, 
and was not long in convincing her that she had reason 
to rejoice that the atmosphere of the city agreed so 
ill with her child. Franz verified all I said by an 



Marie Laforet. 255 

abrupt, emphatic assent, so that before we retired, her 
only desire was to get her daughter away from such 
a place of abominations. Thus far our plan had suc- 
ceeded admirably, and we went to sleep confident and 
sanguine. The next morning, the Widow asked our 
advice as to the best means of getting Marie back to 
her home. Her only embarrassment was how to brave 
her sister's displeasure, and how to make amends for 
the expenses she had incurred for her. These, to us, 
were minor considerations, for I knew the latter to be 
much exaggerated in the Widow's imagination, and as 
to the former, it seemed, under the circumstances, of 
no consequence whatever. 

We at once proposed that Maurice should be sent 
for, and the dame accordingly went for him. As it 
was but a few steps, she soon returned, accompanied 
by Maurice Foligny, a fine, noble-looking fellow, of 
manly bearing, to whom, after being satisfied of his 
ready perception by a few minutes' conversation, I 
frankly stated our object in coming into the neighbour- 
hood. When he fully understood it, he grasped the 
hands of each, and, without uttering a word, thus silently 
expressed his thanks. 

I need not recount to you how my friend and I 
went back to Paris in high spirits, bearing a letter 
from the Widow Laforet to Marie, and also one to 



250 II o M A N c E OF Student Life. 

Madame Duchamp, the latter being the jomt production 
of Franz and myself, and written in a manner best 
adapted to effect our object without giving offence. 
Although mild and conciliatory, it was nevertheless de- 
cisive as to Marie's return, on the ground of her ill 
health and her mother's lonely situation, referring also 
to the promise of Madame Duchamp, which her sister 
at the last moment recollected to mention to me, that 
if, after a few months' trial, Marie or her mother were 
not content with the arrangement, the young girl should 
be sent back. I believe there was also a letter from 
Maurice to his betrothed, but as this is a point of little 
consequence, I will not speak positively. 

The end of the whole business you may guess by 
this painting about which you were so inquisitive. 
Madame did not prove as obstinate as was expected. 
The fact is, she was pretty well convinced that Marie 
would never adapt herself to her new life, and con- 
sequently that the speculation was a failure; for, as the 
poor girl's health began to droop, even her mysterious 
demeanour ceased to attract attention. So she was 
sent home without more delay. The only astonishing- 
part of the history is, how suddenly she recovered her 
health, her gayety, her plumpness, her colour, and the 
rich bro\^ai of her eyes, which had become so light 
and dull. 



Marie L afore t. 257 

The next month came ; we had pledged ourselves — 
Franz and I — to be present ; and in the very hey- 
day of the vintage, attended by a joyous company, 
Maurice and Marie were united in the little chapel 
which you see here ; after which followed a dance upon 
the green, and a w^orld of merrymaking. Our friend 
Franz seized the occasion to exhibit a happy proof of 
his art. 

You were right, my dear Partridge : this is no fancy- 
sketch. 



258 Romance of Student Life, 



CHAPTEK XIII. 

PREFACE FOR CONCLUSION. 

"This will do, perhaps," said the literary friend to 
whom I submitted the foregoing pages; "but you have 
omitted one very important thing." 

"Whati" 

"The preface!" 

"I hate prefaces." 

" That may be ; but I assure you the preface is as 
essential as the book." 

"How sol" 

"It enables the reader to learn the scope and object 
of the work." 

" Can these not be discovered in the perusal of it?" 

" It is very doubtful. But this is not all : if one has 
a good preface, the critics can generally manage to get 
up an article without having to wade through the volume ; 
and that, you know, is always a great recommendation 
for them. Indeed, I assure you, it is absolutely necessary 



Preface for Conclusion. 259 

for you to state in a preface the purpose you had in 
view in publishing your volume." 

"What if I had noneT 

"That is quite ridiculous. Every body nowadays 
writes with a design; story is the great medium for 
disseminating theories, philosophies, moralities " 

" And {interrupting) absurdities generally." 

" You trifle. I was about to say, that whoever wishes 
to address the public in support of a favourite opinion, 
employs for a vehicle dramatic fiction. I have no doubt 
that very soon our clergymen will preach romances 
from the pulpit." 

"Well!" 

" You see, then, you must prepare a preface." 

"But suppose I had no particular theory to bring 
forward in this book of mine?" 

" Oh ! you had, of course." 

"But I say, suppose I had notP 

" Then, seriously, I advise you not to think of pub- 
lishing it." 

"Still, it contains descriptions of different phases of 
lifer 

" Of no sort of consequence." 

" It endeavours to pourtray the passions and emotions 
of the heart 1" 

"The object! the object!" 



260 Romance of Student Lif 



" It records actual reminiscences- 



*' My friend, it is all very well, provided you have 
had what we call a 'persistent purpose' in what you 
have been doing." 

"Is it not enough that I have written because 1 
wanted to write ? because it gave me pleasure ? be- 
cause it afforded me agreeable recreation after hours 
of professional labour?" 

" I tell you it is not enough ; to say that, would 
be to say nothing. I warn you, for the last time, if 
you do not follow my advice, your book won't sell !" 

" What if it does not sell ; have I not had the en- 
joyment of writing it ?" 

" Oh, indeed ! if you are going to mount the high 
horse, I will bid you good-morning. I should like to 
hear what your publisher will say. Upon my word, 
here he comes !" \^Enter Publisher.^ 

" My dear sir, I just stepped in to inform you that 
we are waiting for your preface." 

"What did I tell you? You will believe me after 
this. I knew you would be forced to write one. But I 
will leave you together to settle the matter. Adieu I" 
\^Exit Literary Friend^ 

"I had decided not to have any preface." 

"No preface?" 

" To be sure, our friend who has just left advises it." 



Preface for Conclusion. 261 

" He is a very judicious person. It would be safe, 
I am sure, to. follow his suggestion." 

" I suppose so ; {suhmissively ;) but how will this 
please you? I will write a preface, and insert it for 
the last chapter." 

"That strikes me as rather a good idea. On the 
whole, I think it will take.^'' 

"Done!" 



THE END. 



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